Calculation and Commitment
by Brazzie
Summary: When Tig and Half-Sack get in trouble, they meet a woman who isn't quite like anyone they've met before. Tig/OC.
1. Chapter 1

***

_My first fanfic. Probably the last! I find Tig fascinating, but I don't buy into the representations of him as either a big kitten under the surface, or as an abusive bastard. I'm not very fussed about authentic continuity, but I'm working in an AU that's after Donna's murder but before the season 2 mess with the Irish._

_-B_

***

**Interesting Tidings**

"There are interesting tidings from Lodi." Clay said, with a smirk on his face. He rested his forearms on the table and looked into the eyes of his brothers. "Darby fucked up, bad. Turns out the good man was drug trafficking. Who knew? He's serving 10 years, 5 before probation. His second in command and some of their goons went down too. _Huge_ bust."

"How'd that happen? They're in good with law there." Jax asked.

"Agent Goddamn Stahl. She stuck out on us and the True IRA, but hit a homer when she swung for the Nords. We lose Darby, she gets a promotion and fucks off, we all win."

"You get this from Unser?"

"And Hale. They'll be almost as happy to see that bitch outta here as we are."

"Are the Nords totally out of commission in Lodi now?" Bobby asked, putting his cigarette out and leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Because that's a hell of a power vacuum to fill, brother. Someone's going to want a piece of that action, and meth is some risky action."

"Unfortunately, no." Clay frowned. "This is the part I'm not so sure about. Some supremacist piece of shit took the reins on that clusterfuck. His name is Matthew Connor. We know anything about him?"

Happy cleared his throat. "That man is psychotic."

All eyes turned to the Nomad. Tig raised an eyebrow, and Jax blinked. Clay asked, "What do you mean?"

"Rumour is he's into crazy, dangerous shit. He doesn't just shoot people—he cuts bits off first. The women he uses don't walk away when he's done." Happy said. "He could bring a world of hurt into our neck of the woods."

"And bring ATF right back on our heads, if he's careless." Tig said, disgusted.

"He ain't fond of the Sons, either." Happy added. "I think we might have more problems than we did before."

"Shit." Clay said. "That takes the fun out of it, don't it. Well, at least we're clear of Stahl. Now, other club business…"


	2. Chapter 2

Tig raced demons, his bike on fire beneath him. He knew it was a nightmare, but he didn't know how to break it apart. It was a bad trip. It was a hang-over. It was the feeling of his bike skittering sideways beneath him, ditching him onto searing concrete and shattering his bones like glass.

He woke to a cool hand on his forehead and the sense that something was desperately wrong. He tried to sit up. A tearing pain in his side set him reeling, and he sagged back down to the bed. Moving his head unlocked a world of hurt in his skull. He tasted blood and cursed, then forced himself upright. Blinking, he looked down at the bandage that was taped firmly over his left side. His shirt was ripped, his feet were bare, and he didn't have the first clue where he was.

He realized he was being watched. A woman was crouched nearby, her eyes wary. Tig didn't recognize her at all. She said, in a voice low but firm. "No point in hurting yourself more. There's nowhere to go."

"Where am I?" It wasn't a hospital and it wasn't the clubhouse. It was a mattress on the floor in a bare-walled room. He gritted his teeth and sat up through the pain. "Oh for fuck's sake, bounty hunters? Again?"

The woman shook her head. Tig looked at her more closely. She was pretty in a wholesome kind of way he rarely gave a second glance. Her long brown hair was clean but tangled around her shoulders, like it hadn't been brushed in days. She was also barefoot, and wore jeans with a faded red t-shirt that was several sizes too big.

Tig's eyes narrowed. There was a heavy chain around her neck, which was also ringed with bruises, as if someone had twisted the chain to choke her. Extreme kink, Tig thought.

"Not bounty hunters?"

"Definitely not."

Tig wanted to shake the answers out of her, but she was just out of reach. A first-aid kit sat open on the floor between them. "Then what the fuck do they want?"

She shrugged and looked away. Tig noticed the unnaturally still poise, maintained even while he snarled. She did not cower, so much as become small. She was used to being yelled at. This wasn't his enemy.

"I'm sorry." He said, schooling his voice to be gentle. Maybe he could coax answers out of her. "What do you know?"

"Not much." She said without inflection. "I think they ambushed you. It looked like you were in a car accident."

"Yeah... yeah, those fuckers ran us off the road. The Nordics. Shit." The memory flashed hot and angry. A pick-up truck roaring up on him on the road, the jolt of metal hitting metal, and the feeling of the bike tipping off balance. Well, that much made sense. A random chick in chains at his bedside didn't. He asked, "You a doc?"

"No, but I'm better than nothing. I had to pull a chunk of metal out of your side. Your ankle is probably sprained, and I bet you've got a concussion."

"Fuck. How bad is this?"

She took so long to answer that he thought he wasn't going to get one. Then she said, "I don't know why they've got you here, but I wouldn't make any long-term plans if I were you."

Once he subsided onto the mattress, she crept closer. Her pensive green eyes looked down at him, as if considering the risk, then she carefully checked the bandage. Satisfied with whatever she saw, she placed the palm of her hand on his forehead. It was a gentle and maternal gesture, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. When she tried to move away, he caught her wrist to see how she'd react.

"Who are you?" He asked.

She was startled, but instead of fighting, she inhaled sharply and went still. He could feel her pulse pounding against his fingers and her eyes were wild. She gave no answer. Tig's grip tightened, and he felt her bones of her slender wrist grind.

There was no warning. Her free hand came down on the bandage, applying swift, merciless pressure. Tig grunted and swore at her, nauseated with pain. His grasp loosened enough for her to slip free, and she was across the room and out of reach before he could breathe properly again. She sat with her back against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest and her reproachful eyes peering out from behind her hair. Her fingers were tangled in the chain around her neck, tugging at it nervously.

After a time, there was a click and the door opened. A heavy-set Nord entered. His bearded face was smug as he jerked his head at the girl. She calmly stood and went to him, though Tig saw how her hands were clenched. The Nord stroked his hand down her back and patted her ass as she passed. He cocked an eyebrow at Tig before slamming the door and locking it.


	3. Chapter 3

For the next two days, Tig was alone. He only saw the girl when a Nord unlocked the door long enough to let her set food in his reach. She did not speak and she moved as silently as a cat. She never met his eyes. The Nord always did. Tig could do nothing but seethe, enduring endless hours of lying still and trying to will himself to heal faster. Sometimes, he heard laughter from elsewhere in the building. Other times, he heard screams, which weren't always men's. Mostly it was quiet.

On the third day, the screaming started and didn't stop. It went on for what seemed like an hour, but was likely much less. It made his skin crawl. When the screams quieted, it was silent for a time. Then the lock to his door turned. His blood pounded and adrenaline surged. He staggered to his feet, despite the tearing pain of his wound.

However, they hadn't come for him. A different Nord than usual--who looked entirely too happy with himself--roughly handed the girl into the room. The door slammed behind her. She stood for a long moment, looking at nothing. He was fairly certain the screams hadn't been a woman, but she was clearly rattled. When he moved, putting his back to the wall and sliding back down to sit, her gaze turned to him.

"I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." Tig said, trying to sound reassuring. If he had time with her, maybe he could get answers.

She glanced over her shoulder at the door. Tense and wary, she crossed the room slowly and picked a spot against the wall out of reach. She moved as if in some pain, and when she crossed her arms, he saw fresh bruises around her wrists. Her shirt was stained with blood. There were hollows under her eyes and she looked exhausted. She put her head down on her arms, silent and still.

"Look, I get that this is fucked up. But I really need to know what the deal is here." He tried to keep his voice gentle.

Her head lifted. "You're in a gang?"

"Yeah."

"Then you probably know more than I do. This isn't my world. Or at least, it didn't used to be."

Well, he'd already figured out she wasn't a biker hanger-on. Nothing about her tone invited further question, but he pressed on. "Where do you go when you're not with me?"

His only response was a shudder. Her eyes closed and she leaned her head against the wall behind her. Ordinarily, he would appreciate a woman who kept her mouth shut. Today, it was infuriating. He stifled a sigh.

"Okay, let's start with something easier. What's your name?" Tig tried.

She didn't even look at him. "Anne."

"I'm Tig. Let's try another one. Where are we?"

"I don't know. My leash doesn't stretch as far as the door." She said, bitterness creeping into her voice. But bitterness was anger, and anger meant she still had spirit.

"Okay. How long have you been here?"

"Weeks."

"Do you know why?"

A pause. "No."

He was willing to bet she knew something, but he let it drop. "Is that your blood?"

She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. "No."

"Whose is it?"

"The man who runs this place is a sadist." Her voice had a quaver to it. "He gets off on pain. He made me... help. So if you don't mind, I'm going to sit here and try really hard to not think about what I've just done. Or what's going to happen next."

He remembered Happy talking about Matthew Connor. The Nomad had been right. Tig opened his mouth to ask who they'd been hurting, but he noticed that she was shaking hard enough to make the chain links tremble. He'd seen shock before, and recognized it. He said, "Hey, c'mere."

She didn't seem to hear him. When he asked a second time, her eyes focused on him with some disbelief. He just shook his head and held out a hand. She hesitated, then came to him. Tig was sitting with his back against the wall, legs outstretched on the mattress. Anne lay down next to him, her back against his leg. She curled in on herself, shaking like a scared puppy in a thunderstorm. In the chill air, she was a welcome warmth. He stroked her soft hair and felt her shiver. She reminded him of a dog his mother rescued when he was a kid--all angry and scared, but starved for affection.

When she stopped trembling, he guessed she was asleep. Carefully, he lifted her hair away from her neck to look at the chain. It wasn't jewelry. It was industrial chain with a small but solid padlock linking the ends. There was just enough length left over to wrap around a man's hand. The bruises around her throat weren't kidding, either. Not only that, there was a fresh bite-mark in the curve of her throat. It didn't break the skin, but the clear imprint of teeth was freshly bruised into her white skin.

Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. There had to be a way to get out of here.


	4. Chapter 4

***

_Hi guys. I realize that the FF way is unmitigated positive reviews no matter how shit the story really is, however, I'd welcome constructive criticism. This is hardly high art, but it might validate itself a little if you call attention to bad writing habits I've picked up. Fiction generally ain't my thing. Bring the pain!_

_I'm unlikely to ever get too graphic, since I find written sex scenes so sterile and repetitive. However, I'm leaving things a M because I suppose some frail little chippies out there might find the idea of torture, hurt/comfort and PTSD distressing. However, I suspect more of you will find it delightfully kinky. You twisted little sisters, you.  
_

_In the meantime, hey look, it's Half-Sack! Carry on…_

_-B._

***

Day five. Anne was visibly upset when a grinning Nord escorted her into the room. The man gave her a parting shove to the back which made her cry out in pain. She staggered onto one knee and stayed there, her breath harsh and fast. Tig had stood when he heard footsteps in the hall. He now took a step towards Anne to help her up.

She shook her head sharply. "If you touch me right now, I'll hurt you."

He laughed at the idea of it, then looked down at his bandage and sobered. If she so much as breathed on it, he would hurt.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"No, I'm fantastic. Perfect." Her sarcasm was sharp and full of anger. She rolled her shoulder tentatively and winced, then stood slowly. The collar of her shirt was torn so badly that it slipped down one arm. White gauze showed under the fall of her hair.

"What did they do to you?"

"Tattoo." She said flatly. "I think it's a swastika. I don't want to know."

"Jesus. What for?"

Her hostile eyes gave assessed him in a way he wasn't used to being assessed. "Oh for Christ's sake, you're bleeding. Sit down."

Frustrated and at a loss for words, Tig allowed her to herd him back to the mattress. It was a distressing parody of an aggressive crow-eater tumbling him into bed, though the pain of his injuries took the fun out of it. She put steady but gentle pressure on his side to stop the bleeding. He studied her face as she leaned over him. For all the strong words and pride, her eyes were reddened from crying. Despite her earlier warming, Tig raised a hand to lightly touch her face.

"Where do they take you when you're not with me?" Tig asked.

She stopped, and for a moment he though she was going to pull away, but she just closed her eyes and sighed, as if the strength had drained from her. When her eyes opened, she spoke quietly. "The man in charge keeps me with him."

"Who was screaming the other day?"

She took a breath, and he thought she was going to shut down. Her voice was even softer now, just a whisper. "There's another man like you. He's got the same tattoo on his arm that you do. I'm not supposed to talk to you about him."

"Yeah?" Tig felt a moment of excitement, then frustration.

"He said his name is Kip. He asked about you."

Tig exhaled. Half-Sack had survived the crash. Last he'd seen of the kid was his bike skittering across the highway on its side. "You talked to him? Is he okay?"

Her eyes avoided his. He could feel her body tensing with anxiety. "They're a lot rougher with him than with us." She flinched and shook her head, silent. Her eyes dropped to her hands. Tig stroked his thumb across her cheek. "I think Connor is going to kill him soon."

"What are they doing?"

She swallowed and he felt her hand tighten on his sleeve. "They're torturing him. Connor says it's to get information, but he gets off on it. He gets so into it that he can't stop. Sometimes I can distract him. Sometimes not."

Tig thought about that, and what it meant. Half-Sack had never been his closest brother, but a brother he was. Anne did not have to spell out what trying to make Connor stop meant. The bite mark on her throat was blue and purple, ringed in a sickly shade of green. The Sons would owe her if they got out of this mess alive.

"I'm supposed to be winning you over. Make you like me. Make you stupid if they threaten me. It's a game. All of it, games."

Tig frowned. Anne seemed to sense his thoughts and tried to pull away, but he moved his hand to the back of her neck, preventing her with withdrawing. "And how is this helping you 'win me over.'"

She looked offended. "Telling you their plan isn't. The rest of it? C'mon, bad ass biker, think. They just happen to throw a damsel in distress in your cage? Connor told me to slut it up a bit and make you want me. Screw that."

He let her withdraw enough for him to look in her eyes and read her face for lies. "Do you work for them?"

Her fingers hooked in the chain. "They think I'm broken. They think I'll do whatever I'm told."

"Are you? Do you?"

"Do I look like I'm a player here?" Indignation, but also sincerity. Tig didn't think she was lying.

"You look like a scared little girl in way over her head."

Anne started to laugh. It was a bitter edge, as quiet as it was. Her smile was sweet. "I don't feel scared at all any more."

"Easy, babe." Tig temporized. He didn't want her doing anything stupid, and she looked as war-weary and jumpy as any soldier he'd seen under fire for too long. She pushed him hard enough to let him know she meant it, and he released her. The look in her eyes made him nervous. She'd decided something, and he wasn't sure it was good.

Anne put distance between them and sat across from the door, waiting for someone to get her. When she left, the look she cast over her shoulder at Tig was one he'd seen on Gemma's face before. Someone was going to get bloody, and he had the horrible feeling that it in the end, it was going to be Anne.


	5. Chapter 5

There was screaming. Tig woke a cry of pain and angry voices carrying from elsewhere in the buildng. Men were shouting, and a single woman's angry scream rang out. Anne. He lurched upwards, holding his side and swearing. The sounds came closer, and he heard Anne giving a blistering and somewhat graphic account of what Connor might do if returned to find her beaten or raped by his goons. It would have been deeply funny if Tig wasn't so certain he was about to hear her get killed. She cried out once again, then was silent.

A moment later, the door banged open. Anne was thrust into the room with a rough shove which sent her sprawling across the linoleum floor. There were three Nords in the hall. Two were arguing with each other. The third spat on the floor next to Anne and pulled the door shut with a crash. Anne stayed down.

As quickly as he could, Tig moved to her side. His ankle was strong enough now that he barely limped. He knelt carefully, gritting his teeth, and reached down to push her hair back from her face. There was a reddened hand-print across her face and blood on her lip. She roused at his touch, and rolled onto her back with a groan of pain and looked up at him.

And then, unexpectedly, she smiled. Lying there with her hair in disarray and the coy look on her face, it struck him how very attractive Anne was. There was something feral about the blood on her face and the gleam in her sea-green eyes. With the t-shirt riding up, it was almost pornographic. Tig swallowed.

She laughed once, then winced and clasped her side. "Ow, _shit_. One of them kicked me."

"And you're happy about that?"

"No. I'm happy they're idiots."

Anne's eyes flicked to the door, but she let Tig help her sit up. Careful of his wound, she leaned into him, one arm going around his neck like a lover's. Her warm breasts brushed his arm, which she didn't seem to notice, though he definitely did. And then he felt her breath on his ear. It sent shivers down his spine. She smelled like soap and cigarette smoke. She whispered, "They were so busy roughing me up and arguing about how much Connor would let them hurt me that they didn't notice when palmed a cell phone."

Relief. He felt weak with it. He rested his forehead on Anne's shoulder for a moment. He wondered if she'd started the fight on purpose. Then he wondered why she wasn't phoning 911 right this second. Her arm came up, fingers first tangling in his hair at the base of his neck, then tugging it for his attention. He lifted his head and met her intent gaze. He was close enough to see flecks of gold and blue in the green of her eyes.

"I could call the police. But I know Connor's men are afraid of what your gang can do if they're found. I'll let you make that call, instead of the police, if you make me two promises."

Tig felt adrenaline pound in his veins. "Tell me what you want."

"I want them dead. _Dead_." Her fingernails dug lightly into his neck for emphasis. It was distractingly erotic, but Tig nodded.

"I respect that. What else?"

"If you get out of here, get me out too." She breathed. "Through the door or with a bullet, I don't care which."

Tig placed his hand on her reddened cheek and looked into her eyes. He saw a total absence of hope in their green depths. There was only cold anger reflected at him. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough to recognize it. He also saw the pain fueling that anger. He never made the decision to kiss her, but her lips were close and her skin was warm under his hand.

At first she was still and unresisting. Then she melted into him. Her breath hitched when he ran his tongue over the cut at the corner of her lip, but her body pressed against him. She was passion under a layer of ice. A woman who was all frosty control, then rage. He understood. It was how Tig functioned, too. Calculation, then commitment.

She broke the kiss, and briefly touched her forehead to his. Without a word, she pulled away, and moved to the far wall to watch the door. Tig returned to his corner and made a short, intense phone-call. Once finished, he checked that the phone was silenced. He tucked it under the mattress and nodded to Anne. She had wrapped her arms around her bent knees. The posture, combined with the way her hair hid most of her face, made her look very young and vulnerable. There was, however, nothing young about her eyes. He looked away, and lay back to stare at the ceiling and think.

Anne had gambled to get that phone. She'd taken a beating for it, and even if the Nordics had pulled their punches for her, she still had to deal with their leader when he returned. And if they found out she had the phone, they'd probably kill her. He thought about what she'd said about getting out with a bullet. Maybe she'd only taken this gamble because she didn't mind losing. Or maybe it was because he represented an ally she hadn't had before. Or maybe it was all a manipulation. There was no way to be sure.


	6. Chapter 6

_***_

_To clear up any confusion, I'll say that I really do enjoy the positive reviews. I didn't think I'd care, but they're surprisingly rewarding. However, I'm just as happy to hear about it if you catch me in any linguistic stupidity._

_I make no apologies for this story being a touch dark—that's how I roll. Any story with Tig as the romantic interest is going to have a dark side or be out of character. I think he's the kind of guy who has a hard time seeing regular women as people, rather than toys. He likes his toys, but he's just not wired to see women as equals. (Sadly, I've known some real men like this too. It's not very sexy in reality.) The only woman he really cares about is Gemma. She's tough, she's secretive, and she's willing to both endure and dish out pain to get what she thinks is necessary. Tig respects that._

_This is a longer update. Happy now? :) I'll try to keep them over a thousand words each, but it's going to slow down while I untangle some continuity and fill in scenes._

_-B._

_***_

The surprise of the afternoon was when the Nords returned and Anne wasn't the only one they came for. Before she could master her features back to indifference, Anne's green eyes went wild with fear when two of the Nords walked right past her and seized Tig. Like her, he was concerned the change in pattern meant they knew the cell phone had been stolen. Despite the distraction, he was amused that she seemed more scared for him than herself.

They roughed him up, but Tig didn't mind much. At least it wasn't boring. He put up enough of a fight to keep his pride, though his side was a misery of pain. It had healed enough that he was less worried about bleeding, but a punch near the bandage just about put him on the floor with dizziness.

Tig forced the Nords to carry most of his weight, chuckling at them as they complained. Since the phone call, he felt cocky. Sam Crow would come. It had been at least three hours since Anne stole the phone. The hard part for his brothers would be finding a Nord and leveraging the location out of them. No telling how long that would take, but Tig would put money on Clay breaking some skulls in a hurry to get him and Half-Sack home.

Connor had broken a lot of rules in his wild, crazy approach to challenging other gangs. However, it meant that retribution could be equally brutal. The thought of it made Tig smile.

Unsurprisingly, the hall opened into in a warehouse. Along one wall, there was a line of tables and what looked like an efficient system for weighing and bagging blow. Interesting that the Nords were branching out of meth and stepping into Mayan territory—Connor was in a hurry to burn bridges with every other gang in the region, it seemed. There were cleaner ways to commit suicide. Tig scanned the room and counted seven Nords, all of them armed. If nothing else, the man was smart enough to keep himself surrounded by muscle. It wouldn't be enough.

Anne walked ahead of the Nords, her eyes downcast. She moved gracefully and without hesitation, but as always, her tense hands betrayed her. He watched her go to the side of a Nord who was not sitting so much as lounging, his feet up on a crate. This was Matthew Connor. He was lanky but muscled like a runner, and he wore an expensive looking leather jacket over jeans and a shirt. There were tattoos showing on his neck and hands; predictably, his skin was practically a gallery of swastikas. The Nord wore his blond hair long and pulled back, matching a neatly kept beard. Tig hated him on sight.

Connor had a beer in one hand. The other hand flashed out to catch Anne's wrist, pulling her off balance with a rough yank. The chain rattled as she fell, but she barely flinched. Connor watched Tig's reaction with a smile on his face, his hand idly playing with the chain around Anne's neck. She was docile and still under his hand, but when her head lifted, her eyes met Tig's. She was warning him.

"You were a Sergeant at Arms for the Sons, yes?" Connor said, cold eyes on Tig, who smirked.

"You wanted me dead, I'd be dead. Keeping me locked up? That's seriously gay, man. What game you playing here?"

"No games. Just business. High stakes, but it is what it is."

"And what is this? Looks like some seriously twisted kink from where I'm standing."

Connor didn't rise to the bait. He smiled at Tig and twisted the chain in his hand. Anne made a tiny noise of distress and gasped for breath before he loosened his grip. "This is payback."

No, Tig thought. This is foreplay. He'd seen enough kink to recognize the lust and satisfaction in the Nord's pale blue eyes. The man was utterly unhinged.

One of the Nords kicked Tig hard, knocking him down on one knee. They wrestled him down to the ground in front of Connor. He heard the rip of duct tape. He kicked, and scored a solid blow on one of the Nords, but injured and against two men it wasn't much of a contest. He raised his head to look at Anne. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were intent on Connor's. She was, he realized, watching for opportunity.

"Get the ink." Connor ordered off-handedly, without even glancing down at Anne. She moved like a pet expecting a swift kick. She fetched the tools and brought them to one of the Nords standing over Tig.

"Here's how this is going to go. First, we're going to mark you as property of the Nordics. Sure, you'll be able to black it out later, but you'll always feel it there. And then we're going to break your legs so badly you'll never be able to hold up a Harley ever again. Sounds like fun, right?"

Tig fought, but really, there wasn't much he could do. When the tattoo pen hit his skin, he tasted bitter, bitter hate. Connor watched, and at one point sent Anne to get drinks for the Nords whose weight held him pinned to the ground.

They'd barely sketched out the palm-sized swastika on his back when the growl of a truck engine penetrated the walls of the warehouse. The Nords froze, heads coming up and turning to Connor, who flung his beer aside and reached for a gun. A moment later, a truck crashed through the loading bay doors.

"Thank fucking Christ," Tig muttered. Then he realized that he was in the open, thoroughly hog-tied, in the middle of a gun fight.

Gun shots and shouting filled the echoing space. Tig was on fire with adrenaline and he could barely move. He thrashed, kicking his way towards the wall for protection. When Anne's hand touched his face, he almost lashed out at her. Twisting to look up, he saw a goddess, her hair a dark mane around her pale face, eyes blazing green. She had a knife she must have taken from the body of a Nord and she was crouched next to him. She flinched at the gun shots, and her hands shook, but she did not hesitate. Before he could ask, she was sawing at the duct tape, intent on her task in the cacophony while the bullets flew past them.

Answering gunfire rang out. Tig looked up and saw Clay standing over them, giving covering fire while Anne freed him.

She worked on his wrists first, hacking and tearing through the tape. His hands were numb, so he let her free on his ankles while he worked feeling back into his fingers. When he finished tearing the tape from his legs and looked up, Anne was gone. So was the knife. He yanked a gun from the hand of the dead Nord closest to him and threw himself into the fray.

It was hard to keep focused, but seeing Clay in the room and all the Sons cuts around him was an anchor. He was, he realized, enjoying himself. A gun in his hand brought him back to the Sergeant he'd almost forgotten how to be, locked in a closet for god knows how many days. He felt joy.

And suddenly, things were quiet. Tig stood at Clay's side, one hand on his president's shoulder. He scanned the room. Nothing but Sons and bodies. He looked for his brothers. He looked for Anne.

"Where's Sack?" Chibs asked. "He jack-rabbited out of the room they had him in, but I lost him after that."

Gun extended, Tig stalked through the warehouse. It was dark in the back, only feeble threads of sunlight penetrating the dirty yellow glass of the narrow windows. It was in the hallway that he found more than just Half-Sack. Kip was on the ground, clutching his gut and coughing. Matthew Connor was also on the ground, looking dead or close to it.

That was disappointing. Tig had hoped he'd get to murder the crazy son of a bitch.

Knife in her fist, Anne was kneeling in Connor's blood and staring down Happy like she'd cut him if he came too close. It was possibly the sexiest thing he'd ever seen in his life, but it was also a very bad idea. Happy was in his element, hyped up from the fight, and was inching closer to her. The kitten had claws, but he'd bet on Happy in a knife fight every time.

"Hey_, hey_! Hap, knock it off." Tig said, getting Happy's attention. "What the hell."

Half-Sack groaned and gasped, "Wasn't her that hit me, damn it. Don't hurt her."

"Anne, it's okay. Put the knife down. No one's going to hurt you." Tig put himself between Happy and Anne. "What happened?"

Half-Sack looked up with blood-shot, exhausted eyes. "I didn't want to let this bastard get away, but he got lucky. Then Anne... you should have seen it. She just came up behind him and stabbed him like it was nothing."

Tig took another step towards Anne. "Hey, kid, look at me. I promised to get you out, remember? This is us getting you out. They're dead. Look, Connor's dead."

She blinked at him, then looked at Connor as if seeing him for the first time. She looked confused and afraid. Tig stepped around the pool of blood and touched her arm. The knife slipped from her slack fingers and clattered to the floor. She allowed him to take her hand and lead her away from the body.

Half-Sack staggered to his feet and cast a dark look at Happy. He slung his arms around Anne in a loose hug, which she didn't seem to notice. Tig wondered what relationship she'd built with Half-Sack. Had she been playing them both to get their help? It would, honestly, have been the clever thing to do. His hand tightened on hers.

"Fekking hell." Chibs said when he confronted Kip and Tig. Neither were clean, both were bloodied. Tig's shirt was ripped and splattered with blood and Half-Sack wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Chibs regarded the pale, dark-haired girl and raised an eyebrow. "'Who's yer friend?"

"Be nice." Kip said. "The Nords were keeping her, too. She got hurt trying to help us."

Tig looked at Anne. Her eyes were vacant. "She's got our protection for now."

"Yes." Kip said, firmly. "She goes with us."

Chibs shrugged. "C'mon, ye filthy bastards. Let's go home."

There were Sons from other chapters, mostly Nomad, searching the warehouse. They'd torch it when they were done pulling anything useful out. Unwilling to see if a key would turn up, Tig sent Juice to fetch bolt cutters from the back of the van. When Tig brought the metal sheers near her face, she flinched, but she didn't utter a sound as cut through the padlock at her throat. A second later, he had the lock open and the chain was on the ground at Anne's bare feet. Silently, she swayed against him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

In the van, warm for the first time in days, Tig dozed with Anne curled up on the seat next to him. She'd stayed at his side every second since they left the warehouse. She was clearly afraid of the Sons nearly as much as the Nords, but never said a word. She just followed him as if she didn't have the strength to protest. Now, wrapped in a blanket with her head on his leg, she slept. He'd felt the moment she went under, because it was only then that she stopped trembling.

Jax drove with one hand, talking to Tara on his cell phone. Half-Sack was in the front seat, staring out the window with an uncharacteristically stony expression. He looked ten years older than he'd been the week before.

Tig touched Anne's hair and ran his fingertips down her face and arm. Her eyelashes trembled, but she did not wake. He traced the paleness of her outstretched forearm. No needle-tracks or scars marked the silky skin in the curve of her elbow. In fact, under the bruises, he realized that he had seen no scars at all. No ink, except what the Nords had done. What a shitty way to get your first tattoo. He idly wondered if she'd ever ridden a motorcycle in her life.

The clubhouse was home, but it had never looked quite as good as it did when Tig dragged his aching body out of the van in the yard of Teller-Morrow. His brothers were around him. Tara and Gemma, wearing identical looks of stern worry, were waiting. He lightly shook Anne to rouse her, feeling guilty when she startled awake. Her eyes were wide and scared, but she silently sat upright.

Tig leaned close and said quietly, "You're safe here. We've got a doctor, and none of the Nords are stupid enough to come into Charming. Safe, a'right?"

Tara was running to the van before Tig even got both feet on the ground, Gemma following at a more dignified pace. He waved them back enough to help Anne out of the van. Tig handed her off to Tara, and said, "Nothing wrong with me and Sack that won't wait. This is Anne. She's had a rough few weeks."

Tara eyed his bandaged midsection and gave Half-Sack an equally cynical assessment, but neither was bleeding and both were standing. Casting a dark look of concern at Tig, Tara placed her hand lightly on Anne's back and walked her to the club house, her voice soft and reassuring.

Gemma approached. She laid one cool hand on his cheek, her eyes searching his, and kissed him lightly on his forehead. When she hugged him the smell of her perfume almost brought tears to his eyes. "Welcome home."

Tig swallowed a wave of pure emotion and gave Gemma his best reassuring smile. She stepped away to welcome Half-Sack the same way. Tig stood tall, despite the hitch in his side, and walked to Church. Club business always came first.


	7. Chapter 7

***

_Chapter the seventh, in which we find out who Anne is. Sort of. However, it's the last step before the kind of stuff you guys will probably enjoy, so bear with me. I intend to update again this evening before I crash for the night. I want to do a last edit before it goes out. Sex scenes aren't really my wheelhouse.  
_

_I'm going to be ridiculously busy for the next week or two with a new job, so I apologize in advance if things trail off with slower updates. I do promise to get to a point of some resolution before I bail on the daily updates._

_-B._

***

They came out of Church to find Tara waiting in the clubhouse. Chibs laughed at the look on Tig's face as he confronted the doctor. Her posture and the look in her eyes was right out of Gemma's book—it said something like _I'm keeping my mouth shut, and you'd better be goddamn grateful for that, because I don't trust this at all._. Her medic bag was on the table next to her.

"All right, show me your worst." She said.

Tara looked at Half-Sack first and proclaimed him concussed, dehydrated, and desperately in need of a bath. The young man had so many scrapes, burns and bruises that Tig realized how lucky he'd been. The injuries weren't the limit of it, either. There were all kinds of ways to make a man scream that barely left a mark. Half-Sack had hinted at things in Church, but gone silent when pressed for details. Tara gave Kip a bottle of disinfectant, some pain-killers, and ordered him to shower and see her later. There was a haunted look in her eyes when she turned to Tig.

The wound in Tig's side, where a piece of metal in the accident had left an inch-deep puncture, made Tara wince. He winced more when she cleaned it. She opined that he was unbelievably lucky he was he hadn't died of sepsis.

As she rebandaged it, he asked. "How's Anne?"

Tara's eyes raked his, though her pensive smile was gentle. "She wouldn't let me do a rape kit. All I could do was give her IV hydration and put enough Ativan in her to get her to sleep."

"Where is she?"

"We put her in Jax's old apartment for now." Tara removed her latex gloves. "Tig, who is she?"

He shrugged. "The Nords were keeping her. Like… a pet, I guess. She never said how she got there. Wrong time, wrong place? Wrong friends?"

After Tara released him, he downed his antibiotics with a beer and went to find Anne. He felt responsible for her. Tig let himself into Jax's apartment quietly. The space had become little more than a storage room for Jax and Tara, but he could see Gemma's hand in the scent of clean sheets and the organized kitchen. He found Anne in Jax's bed, asleep and curled on her side. One arm was tethered to an IV. The other was sheltering her face. Her hair was shiny and damp from showering.

He felt, in some way, comforted by the sight of her safe and asleep. The Sons owed her some peace of mind for what she'd done. Getting the cell phone was impressive enough. Holding her shit together in a firefight long enough to free Tig and kill the Nord leader? She was tough, that was for sure.

Tig rubbed his temple with one hand. He hoped she'd be able to stay tough. Clay wanted to talk to her tomorrow, and he wasn't sure how happy she'd be about facing down another assortment of large, tattooed men. She'd be even less happy when she found out they weren't planning to let her walk away.

***

Clay's hand rested on an open box in front of him on the table. It contained Anne's wallet, a broken necklace with a gold charm of a galloping horse on it, and a set of keys. The Nomads had found it in Connor's office, along with the things they'd taken from Tig and Half-Sack. Tig had been somewhat consoled over the wreck of his bike by getting his rings back. Only somewhat—the bike was painful loss.

Anne, however, did not look comforted at all by the sight of her ID in Clay's hands. She was wearing Tara's clothes, with one of Jax's old shirts hanging around her like a jacket. She'd rolled up the sleeves, but her arms were tightly crossed as if she was cold.

In deference to Anne's nervousness, she was only facing Clay, Jax and Bobby rather than the whole chapter. In spite of it, she was terrified. It didn't show in the set of her shoulders or her raised chin, but Tig could see it. Her eyes had the neutral blankness of captivity, and she'd gone very still. She had declined a seat, preferring to stand and face down Clay across the table. He felt guilty standing next to her. He hoped she found it reassuring—and didn't notice that he'd put himself between her and the door.

"So you're the girl who kills Nords. Annika Harris?" Clay set her driver's license on the table in front of him with a click. It was, improbably, an Alberta license. She wasn't even American.

After a moment, she nodded.

"The way our Kip tells it, you're a hero."

When she didn't react, Clay continued. "Tig wants us to offer you temporary club protection. But for that, I need to know what we're protecting you from. What's their stake in you?"

Anne shook her head. "I don't want your protection. I want to go home."

"I'm sorry, but that's a very bad idea." Clay said.

"So I traded one cage for another?" Anne said, her voice icy. "Fine. Just don't pretend like you're doing me any favours."

Bobby snorted. Clay and Jax wore matching looks of astonishment. Tig, having heard her cursing at Nords, was less surprised. He decided to keep her the hell away from any weapons until they could get her safely out of Charming.

Anne turned to leave the room. Tig reached out and stopped her with a hand on her arm. She stilled, then turned her face away, her forehead against Tig's shoulder. It was the same way she'd stood, just barely touching him, after he'd cut the chain from her neck. He felt like an utter bastard.

"Clay, look at this." Tig gently pulled Anne's shirt up to bare her back. She shuddered unhappily, but didn't resist as he showed Clay the swastika that dominated her upper back. Dark and savage, it stood out on her skin like a brand, overshadowing even the red welts and bruises that surrounded it. "He did this to mark her. They're not going to let her walk away. She's walking evidence of how far the Nords crossed the line."

Bobby inhaled deeply. "If this gets out, the media would go batshit. It'd bring a world of hell down on the Nords. If even one Nord knew about this, she'd be dead before clearing California."

Tig felt Anne flinch at the mention of media.

"That's serious ink." Clay said.

Jax winced and looked away, then back at Anne. "Darlin', you're safest with us."

Jax's puppy-dog charm was lost on Anne. Her hands had tightened on Tig's arms, and now her fingernails were digging into his skin in silent protest.

At a nod from Clay, Tig released her. She slipped past him and out the door.

"I don't buy this." Bobby said. "I mean, the Nords have obviously gone insane, but just grabbing some innocent chick and doing that? Rape her, sure. But keep her around, mark her, make it a game? That's something personal."

Clay tapped Anne's wallet. "She's 33, she's from Calgary—which, I might add, is pretty goddamn strange on its own—and she's got staff tags from a high school. Not much to go on. The only link I can see there is that the Nords have a pretty big following in Calgary."

Tig nodded slowly. "She doesn't seem like the kind of chick who hangs around gangs. She talks like she's educated, and she's got no ink 'cept what they slapped on her back."

Jax shrugged. "Even we've got some clean-looking associates."

"Juice is doing some research." Clay said. "I'm not letting her slip off across the border just yet. She's a loose end I don't like, and anyway, she just murdered a Nord. She needs to lay low for awhile."

"She's going to be pissed."

"Better pissed off than dead." Clay said, leaning back in his chair and shrugging. "Make sure she knows this is for her own good. And in the meantime, if you and Sack can get anything out of her, that's all to the good. If not, at least keep her quiet, okay?"

"Can do."

Anne wasn't in the clubhouse when Tig finished with Clay and Jax. His heart sank for a moment, then he saw Half-Sack leaning in the side doorway. Anne was outside, sitting at the bench less than a stones throw from the door. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest and her face was tilted into the sunlight, eyes closed. Tig exchanged a look with Half-Sack and sauntered over to Anne. He wondered if she'd be angry.

"Hey mystery girl. You okay?"

Her eyes opened at his first footstep towards her. The gaze she turned at him was empty of emotion. She sounded weary. "I've had better days. Better years."

"It'll get easier." He sat on the table, his feet on the bench next to her. He lit a cigarette and tried not to stare at her back, where the tattoo was hidden under Jax's shirt.

Anne looked down at her hands. "I can't leave, can I."

"Nah. Not yet. You're safer here. No leaving the clubhouse 'less someone takes you."

She looked over her shoulder at him, green eyes solemn. She fell silent. After a moment, she leaned back and rested her head against his knee. She did not cling or cry—she just leaned on him, as if to anchor herself.

He realized in that moment that he could fuck her if he decided to. The only people here she wasn't jumpy with were him and Half-Sack. She was isolated and vulnerable, surrounded by things that scared her. Then he remembered that she'd stabbed a man in the back the day before. He smiled and stroked her hair. There was something hard to resist about her balance of tough as hell and terribly vulnerable. If she stuck around Charming for any length of time, he'd have her. And then she'd go back to her old life. No strings, no complication. Perfect.


	8. Chapter 8

The welcome home party was in full swing. Music blared, there was a very flexible stripper on the pool table, and Half-Sack had two women vying for a spot on his lap. All the brothers from out of town who'd come to help with the search and rescue had stayed for the celebration. Tig was happy. He kissed one of the crow-eaters as he moved through the chaos to the bar. She tried to shove her tongue down his throat and her hands roamed under his shirt. He disengaged and pointed her towards Half-Sack, giving her a firm push. She was drunk, but she took the hint.

At the bar, Tig claimed two bottles of beer, then grabbed a third. He left the main room of the club house. In the hallway, it was quieter, but only just. A Tacoma prospect was looking bored and leaning against the wall outside Jax's apartment. He looked at the beer in Tig's hands longingly.

Tig handed the man a bottle, and said, "I got this one for a bit."

"It's your party, brother," said the prospect, though he clearly wanted off guard duty.

"I owe the lady." Tig smiled.

The prospect winked, and was happy to take the beer and scram. Tig knocked at the door, waited for a moment, then cautiously entered.

Anne was sitting cross-legged on the couch with a magazine in her lap. Her eyes were large and anxious as they fixed on him, but she relaxed when she saw he was alone. He closed the door behind him, which dulled but did not hide the raucous party in the building.

"Hey babe." He sat to put them at eye level, rather than looming over her. He passed her one of the beers and set his own on the coffee table. "Hope the noise ain't bothering you too much."

She shrugged. "Loud music is the least of my problems right now."

"Yeah, well. You're safe here." Tig watched her carefully. "What I don't understand is how a Canadian chick ended up in a Lodi warehouse. Care to shine any light on that?"

Anne took a long drink from the beer and stared past him, at nothing. Oh well. If there was anything to find, Juice would find it. Tig sighed. "Later then. You feeling okay?"

"All things considered." She shrugged. "Can't sleep, though."

"I get that."

The silence stretched out, and Tig thought he'd misjudged how much Anne trusted him. Then she closed her eyes and spoke. "I've never killed anyone before. Should I feel something? I don't feel anything at all."

Tig put a hand on her shoulder, the way he would with a brother. She flinched, as if waiting for him to do more. When he didn't move, she relaxed and leaned into his touch. Anne turned and curled against him, her cheek against his chest. Tig settled his arm around her, liking the way she fit there, small and quiet at his side. Her hair smelled clean and tangled softly in his beard.

"There's no rules on how you should feel. Connor got what he deserved." Tig said firmly. He took her delicate hand in his own, squeezing it lightly for emphasis. "You looked out for me and Kip in there. We're gonna look out for you here. We'll get you home."

Tig loved women. He loved everything about their bodies, the softness of their skin and the way they sounded when they were happy. However, he didn't spend much time cuddling them, and if he did, it was a part of something a lot sweatier than this. Tig found it hard to not think about the lithe legs and curves that lay under the oversize shirt Anne was bundled up in. It was, however, too soon to push anything on her. He wanted her, but didn't want to break her.

Anne's head lifted, and Tig thought she was going to push him away. And then her lips softly touched his neck. She stayed there for a moment, her breath warm on his throat, and Tig swallowed. "Aw, baby, you keep doing that and it's going to go to places I don't think you're ready for."

He felt her lips curve in a smile against his skin. She kissed this neck again, and traced his jaw line with lightly scraping fingernails. Compared to a crow eater's overt seduction, this was the barest whisper of an invitation, but the message was clear. His hand tightened on hers as he wrestled with himself.

"I choose this." She said, voice firm. "I want to feel something that I choose, instead of something forced on me. All I'm asking from you is this, right now."

"Oh god."

Her fingertips stroked his face as her lips pressed warmly against his throat. Tig gave in. His own nerves were frayed after the time with the Nords, and Anne was offering herself up as a warm and clean thing to use. He stood and took Anne by the shoulders, pulling her up and guiding her firmly towards the bed. She went willingly.

Anne was astonishingly passionate. Tig had expected to coax her into fucking him. It had never crossed his mind that she'd be the one practically pulling him into bed. She responded to his touch with quiet moans and shivers, and her hands were artful. Her fingernails drew lines of red down his back, digging harder at his groan. She moved as if connected to him. The last few women Tig had fucked, it hadn't been much more than mutual masturbation. Anne, however, seemed to always know what touch he wanted, even before he did. When he'd imagined fucking her, a faintly guilt-tinged pleasure, he'd assumed she'd be a passive and innocent lay. Although there was something guileless and innocent about her, she mirrored his joy in the act.

Her only hesitation was when he entered her. Her eyes were closed, but her eyelids trembled, and her body went still. He held his breath and kissed her as tenderly as he knew how, to let her know that he wasn't Connor.

"Let me erase him, baby."

Anne's eyes opened, and she looked at him with raw, aching need. Her back arched, and she came alive under him. Her breasts pressed against his naked chest, and she bit his ear hard enough to almost bring him over the edge. Tig lightly kissed the bruises at her throat and then her lips. She moaned into his mouth, and he grinned, kissing her roughly and thoroughly. Before long, she was breathing hard and her eyes were blank with pleasure. She came with a low, sweet cry, and Tig came right behind her.

Afterwords, Anne lay on her stomach next to him. She'd pulled the sheet around herself, self-conscious, but Tig had tugged it back down to her waist. He traced the tattoo on her upper back with an idle hand, trying to think of designs that would hide the swastika. The partially healed welts from Connor's hand weren't as bad as the ones on Half-Sack's skin, but they were bad enough. It bothered him, but he was enjoying the softness of her skin and the darkness of her hair against its paleness. He felt perfectly calm for the first time since he'd woken up in the Nord warehouse. Anne also looked sleepy.

"Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to roll over and fall asleep."

She gave a purring groan and muttered. "I'm not going to stop you."

He snorted, but watched over her until her breathing evened out and her body relaxed. He traced fingers down her cheek, but she didn't react at all. He left the bed and dressed quietly, but there was so much noise coming from the party outside that he realized there wasn't much point in trying. Anne was out for the count. She didn't stir when he pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

In the hallway, he found Gemma. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, a cigarette in her hand. She waited until he'd closed the door behind him before saying, "Really?"

"Uh. Hey Gem."

"You're tapping that ass? After all that? Were you hitting it when you inside too?"

"No, jeeze, Gemma." He ran a hand through his hair. "It wasn't like that. She's not like that. She just wanted to call the shots on something, I think."

Gemma's cynical glare was unwavering. "You planning on keeping her?"

"I don't think she wants to be kept."

Gemma sighed. "Hope not. If she's broken winged birdie, I don't think the MC lifestyle is going to suit her any. You know anything about that girl?"

"Not really, no."

"I'm worried about you, Tig."

"Aw, Gem, I'm tougher than this shit. And I'm pretty sure she is too."

"Hope you're right." Gemma gave him a warning look. "Shit like you guys went through can make you a bit crazy. That girl is bound to be fucked up right now, and I wouldn't blame her for it at all. Be careful, Tig."

There was nothing to say to that. Tig kissed Gemma's cheek and went to find some unlucky prospect to watch Anne's door. There was a party going on, and that was where Tig belonged.


	9. Chapter 9

It was late morning. _Very_ late morning. The club house was a sodden and chaotic mess of brothers, bitches, and bottles. A good party. Tig's head was pounding, and he couldn't remember parts of the night before. He did, however, clearly remember thoroughly fucking Anne. Or, if he were honest, being thoroughly fucked _by _Anne. He smiled in spite of the headache.

Tig's one and only goal was coffee. He could smell it brewing, which meant that Gemma or one of the other old ladies was already restoring order. In fact, as he turned the corner, he saw Gemma in the kitchen. He also saw Anne, which he hadn't expected. Her back was to him, and oddly, she seemed relaxed. She leaned against the wall facing Gemma, a mug of coffee in one hand and her long hair free over her shoulders. Her figure, which he now could say that he knew very well was curvy in all the right places, was hidden under Jax's shirt.

For the first time, he heard Anne's sincere laugh. He felt relief that she wasn't upset, and that Gemma wasn't baring her claws yet. Likely, she was deliberately doing her part to keep Anne from kicking up too much of a fuss about sticking with Sam Crow.

At that moment, Gemma's eyes slid past Anne and locked on his. Her smile was poisonously sweet. Tig winced, but approached. "Mornin' Gem, Anne."

Tig poured himself coffee before he looked at Anne. He wasn't sure what would be worse—her acting as if they were in a relationship, or her looking remorseful about the night before. Her brief gaze was calm but expressionless before she looked down at her own coffee, as if he wasn't very interesting.

He remembered her words from the night before; _All I'm asking from you is this, right now. _

Well, she'd gotten what she wanted and so had he. No harm, no foul. He wondered if it was a one-shot deal, or if she'd be game for another round. Or three. Then he wondered if she'd be just as willing to screw Half-Sack. He left the kitchen to the women and went to commandeer a pack of cigarettes from Juice, who was snoring under the table, and oblivious to the theft.

When the rest of the brothers scattered around the clubhouse began to stir, Anne's voice grew quiet. Tig watched her retreat back to Jax's apartment, quietly and precisely picking her way through the wreckage. She seemed utterly unfazed by the mess, but picked a path that kept her out of arms reach of any men.

"She still looks scared." Kip said. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Tig. The young man looked tired and hung-over. There were lipstick marks all over his neck.

"It's just another room full of strangers for her." Tig said. "You want to rescue that damsel in distress?"

Kip laughed, then realized what Tig meant. Half-Sack smiled in that guileless way that drove usually made Tig want to slap him. "I think I would have died in there without her. It's kind of hard to look her in the eye right now."

"Yeah?" Tig had never been the kind of brother who you went to for emotional shit. He was the brother who broke skulls and shot things. However, he was the only brother who'd heard the screaming inside the Nord warehouse.

"On that last day, when they were shit-kicking me, she mouthed off the Nords. Pissed them off so badly they went for her instead."

Tig nodded, remembering how they'd thrown her into his cell, bleeding and laughing. "That's when she stole the cell. She knew what she was doing."

Half-Sack's face twisted with self-hatred for a moment, then smoothed out into a chill expression that looked unnatural on his pretty-boy features. There were things Kip wasn't ready to talk about. "She was brave. But I couldn't protect her at all."

Tig stared down at his mug. "She said they tortured you."

"Yeah. It…" Kip's voice broke. He took a breath and continued. "It was bad. Then after, Anne would come. She talked me down when I was freaking out. She just… held onto me. Then they'd take her away."

"Yeah. You had it rougher than I did."

Half-Sack chewed at his lip like he was thinking of saying more, then shrugged. "We owe her."

"I know that."

"I just see the way you look at her, y'know?" Half-Sack said, his eyes meeting Tig's with an unexpected strength.

"Look at her like _what, _prospect?" Tig leaned back.

"When we were in there, she asked was if she was safe with you." Half-Sack said, after a long silence of locked eyes. Kip wasn't quite a wolf yet, but he wasn't a puppy anymore either.

"And you told her?"

"To trust you." Half-Sack regarded Tig with eyes that were much older than they'd been two weeks prior. "Don't make me a liar."

***

"Clay, you've got to come see this." Juice said, looking up from his laptop with a profoundly worried expression.

"Yeah?"

"Anne's information just came in."

Chibs and Opie exchanged looks. Clay went to look over Juice's shoulder at the computer monitor. After a moment, the president covered his eyes with one hand and said, "_shit."_

"What didja find?" Tig asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"She was tricky to find. I had to get the Vancouver chapter to help me out. But it got real interesting real fast." Juice spoke quickly, his hands tapping nervously at the edge of the table. "She's Canadian now, but before she moved to Calgary and married some canuck, she was a New Yorker. And here's the kicker... Anne is her middle name. Her full maiden name is April Annika _Stahl._ Younger half-sister to our dear friend Agent June Stahl."

Opie's eyes bored into Tig's. Clay looked rattled, "Okay, shit. Shit. Shit. What else do we know?"

"There's not much to find. The police came in on a domestic dispute case with her ex-husband three years ago, and she's got a downright irresponsible number of speeding tickets. Otherwise, no dirt. Her work reported her missing from Calgary on May 15th."

"Is she a teacher?"

"Nope. Counsellor. She works with troubled youth. Maybe she could set Half-Sack back on the straight and narrow."

Tig rubbed his temple and mentally compared Anne to Agent Stahl. There was little resemblance between the two, except for both of them having more balls than any woman ought to have.

"So what does this mean?" Jax asked. "Agent Stahl booked outta here after Darby went behind bars. If she knew her sister was here, wouldn't she be tearing Southern California apart?"

"When Anne got the phone, she let me call you. She didn't call ATF, the police, or her bitch of a sister." Tig said. He looked around at his brothers, and realized that Opie was gone.

Tig cursed and ran for Jax's apartment. The door was open, and found Opie in Anne's bedroom, their eyes locked in some silent communication. Opie was gazing down at her with an expression of wrath frozen on his face, as if trying to stare down Agent Stahl through Anne's impenetrable green stare. Anne was sitting on the edge of the bed, fists clenched in the sheets but meeting his anger without cowering.

"Easy, brother. She didn't pick her family." Tig eased into the room, intending to get between the two of them. He knew how badly this could go—he was as tied into Opie's grief as Agent Stahl was.

Opie reached out, which made Tig very nervous, but only touched the bruises at Anne's neck. "Donna got killed because she was my wife. This girl went through hell because she was Stahl's sister. How is that fair?"

Tig swallowed guilt and stayed silent.

"You know what your sister did to us, little girl?" Opie asked.

"No."

"Does she know where you've been?"

She shook her head. "Doubt it."

"What were you doing in Lodi?"

Her eyes moved to Clay. "I was thrown in a van on my way home from work. They drove all day, all night. I didn't even know I was in California at first."

Opie's hand lingered near Anne's throat, and now he encircled her throat with one large hand. Tig started forward, but Anne was still breathing easily, so he put his hand on Opie's shoulder.

Opie ignored him, eyes locked on Anne's. "Tell me the truth."

Anne's green gaze narrowed. Her voice betrayed her with a quaver, but her words were clear and angry, "Truth? Fine. One of my kids got mixed up with white supremacists. They were pulling him in, and I was trying to push him out of it. Then his brother found out I had ties to an ATF agent, and he gave me over to the Nords."

Her hands came up and she wrapped them around Opie's wrist. He loomed over her, close enough that their legs almost touched, but she stood, pushing him back. He gave ground. Anne looked very small next to Opie. She pushed his hand from her throat.

"I was traded to the Lodi Nords for a shipment of meth. They put a chain around my neck and called me their pet whore." She turned her stare back to Clay. "Connor wanted me at his feet when June came back. So there's your truth. If you've got shit with June, take it up with her. I haven't even spoken to her in five years."

"Ope, Chibs, get out of here." Clay jerked his head at Opie, who dropped his eyes and left the room quickly. Chibs followed at a slower pace. Juice, in the hallway, left with them.

Anne took a deep breath and looked at Tig, eyes dark with mistrust. She took a small step away from him and Clay, who just shook his head.

"I don't even know what to say, kid. I haven't forgotten what you did for us, but your sister..." Clay trailed off. He placed a hand on Tig's shoulder. "We need to think. I'm not letting her go to get killed, but hanging on to an ATF's kid sister is bad business."

Clay gave Tig a loaded look, then left the room. Alone, Tig started at Anne. At _April._

"April Stahl, huh." Tig said after a long moment of tense silence.

She cast him a withering look.

"Anything you should be telling me?" He asked.

"No, why would there be? June works for ATF. I don't."

Tig stared her down, looking for some flinch, a tell, anything to indicate a lie. All he saw was anger. She stared right back.

"Okay, look, I get it. My bitch cop of a sister screwed you and everyone else. Now your club wants collateral, same as the Nords. I get it."

"Aw, c'mon. It's not like that."

"What, you think it's different because it's _you?_ Or maybe you think I owe you this because you dragged me out of there?"

"I'm starting to see the family resemblance, kid."

She looked at the door as if considering pushing past him, but her eyes settled on him, icy and joyless. "Don't expect me to be happy about trading cages."

She turned her back on him, arms firmly crossed and shoulders tense as if she half expected him to seize her. Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a breath. He closed the distance between them and placed his hands on her upper arms, running his palms up to her shoulders.

"I get that you're scared." She did not pull away, but did not relax, either. Tig breathed her scent and vividly remembered her naked beneath him. He swallowed. "The Sons aren't like the Nords, and Kip would walk through fire for you. No one is going to lay a hand on you. You're safe. You've got the protection of a whole MC around you, if you can see it that way."

When she didn't respond, he released her, and left the room. After closing the door, he exchanged a look with Happy, who was cleaning his gun in the hallway. As he walked away, he thought he heard a stifled sob from Anne's room. He hated that he cared.


	10. Chapter 10

***

_In my experience, people who come out of the dark and get their shit together often go in one of two directions. One side is inclusion: protecting and healing the victims. The other side is enforcement: controlling and punishing the villains. The pendulum swings one way or the other, but it's the same force behind it. Both sides know damn well how ugly the world is, and feel motivated to have an impact on how other people experience it. Social workers and law enforcement are often cut from the same cloth, though they frequently can't stand each other. _

_June obviously has serious issues with control. She wants to master men and doesn't respect women at all. To me, that says her family life was crap—weak mother, mean father. She made herself as nasty and powerful as any of the men who bullied her. By contrast, Anne tries to save kids who are as lost and broken as she, at one point, must have felt. _

_Am I over thinking this? Why yes, yes I am. _

_-B._

***

For the next three days, Anne was subdued. She showed little but the ultimate poker-face when she regarded any member of the club but Half-Sack. It made Tig grit his teeth, but at least when Kip was sitting with her, sometimes the ghost of a smile crossed her face. If others were near, she would fade back behind the boy, silent and turned inwards. She didn't cower so much as switch off. Anne went away, far behind her empty green eyes.

Too wired and haunted by the memory of Donna to sleep, Tig entered the clubhouse in the small hours of the morning, expecting to find it deserted. Instead, he found Anne and Half-Sack asleep on the couch like a pair of puppies. Anne was curled sideways, knees touching Kip's leg and her head propped on his shoulder. Kip's head was tilted back, and he snored softly.

Tig watched them for a bit, then saw the glint of her eyes opening. Still and silent, she regarded him, and he remembered her feral and bloody in the Nord warehouse.

"You really don't sleep, do ya." He said.

Anne's head lifted. When the light fell across her face, she just looked weary. "Nope. You?"

Tig shrugged. He went to the bar and poured a shot of whiskey, slammed it, and poured another. He watched Half-Sack and Anne broodingly. She unfolded from the couch and stretched. An entirely innocent move, it was somehow sexier than any stripper. She was wearing track-pants and a SAMCRO t-shirt with one of Half-Sack's hoodies unzipped and hanging loosely around her. Silent and expressionless, she walked to the bar and perched on a stool across from Tig. He set a second shot-glass in front of her and filled it.

"Still angry?" He asked, voice pitched low. She accepted the offered shot, and downed it more slowly than he had, wincing. "You seem to be okay with Kipper."

"He never looked at me the way the rest of you do."

Tig nodded. "So you are still mad."

Her eyes assessed him coolly. "I'm not blind. You're not the boss here, but you're always right behind him. Tell me you couldn't just drop me at the nearest airport and let me walk."

"I can't. Won't." He shook his head. "The Nords are looking for you. We'd have sent you on your merry way by now if they weren't."

"What?" She straightened in her seat.

"We only killed a small part of that beast, kid. There are still Nords out there who know what Connor did to you. They want you dead and silent before you get to ATF or the media."

Anne closed her eyes. Tig pressed another shot into her hand. She drank it without looking at him. "I'm going to kill June. With my bare hands."

Tig laughed. "Not me?"

"Guess not if you're standing between me and them." She sighed. "God damn it."

"Juice says you're a counsellor."

Her eyes assessed his. "What else do you know?"

"Married?"

"I was." She shrugged. "I went chasing a career, and he went chasing other women. I'm not really the white-picket-fence kind of girl anyway."

"What kind of girl are you?" Tig let a bit of leer creep into his voice.

She raised an eyebrow at him dismissively and went back to staring at the shot glass in her hand. "The kind who gets into a whole lot of trouble, apparently."

"Most chicks would still be curled up in a ball, crying."

"I've done a bit of that." She pushed the empty glass away and rubbed absently at her shoulder, as if thinking about the tattoo. "But it doesn't help. So, hypothetically, what happens if I get my hands on a phone and call June?"

Tig eyed her, not sure how serious she was. "How much does she like you?"

Anne laughed. It was a derisive laugh, and she was definitely feeling the whiskey, but it was a laugh. "Have you met the woman? She doesn't like anyone."

"She's your family."

"How much does that mean? She left when I was seven and never looked back." Anne bit her lip. "I think she'd be more upset about her pride than about me getting hurt."

"Do you even want to call her?"

Anne's eyes narrowed, and a sly but sincere smile lit her face like he'd just asked the right question. "Funny how no one asked me that until now. As a matter of fact, no. I don't want to get martyred on the Chanel 6 news, either. I want it behind me."

Half-Sack stirred in his sleep and muttered something incomprehensible. Anne and Tig exchanged a look. He closed his eyes for a moment, kicking himself for the decision he'd just made. "C'mon, babe, let's go up to the roof. Just promise not to throw me off, okay?"

At the top of the stairs, Anne hesitated for a moment. Tig offered her his hand, which she took. As the cool breeze ruffled her hair, she closed her eyes and sighed. Tig felt a disconcerting moment of inadequacy. This was a girl he'd never have had the chance to touch if she hadn't been dragged kicking and screaming into the MC world. In this moment, however, her face was serene. She swayed against him, then dropped his hand and stepped to the edge.

Looking down at the lights of Teller-Morrow, Tig lit up a cigarette. He offered one to Anne, which she declined, but she perched next to him on the vent. She zipped up Half-Sack's sweatshirt against the cool breeze, but left the hood down. The wind picked up locks of her hair, giving her the wild, wind-blown look of a girl out on a ride. "It feels strange to be outside, still."

"Really?" Tig sat beside her. There wasn't a lot of space, but she tolerated his arm touching hers.

"People seem to like keeping me locked up, for some reason." She said dryly.

"I'm sorry." Tig said, awkwardly. He rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. "When was the last time you saw your sister?"

"Mm... 2005? I was in Los Angeles for a conference. We got stupid drunk because it was easier than trying to have a conversation."

Tig tried to imagine Agent Stahl drunk off her ass. It was easier to imagine her drinking other cops under the table. "Not much sisterly love, then."

"She chases criminals; I try to keep kids from becoming criminals in the first place. Different ways of looking at the world. Plus, she's a bully."

"And how do you feel about people who are criminals and bullies?"

She looked up at him, amused. "I don't judge."

"No wonder you don't get along with your sister."

Anne had wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Tig wasn't sure if it was for warmth or for comfort. He slung an arm around her, the way Kip might have. Anne gradually relaxed against him, as if she was having a hard time remembering how to let her defenses down. He sensed that she was making her own decisions where he was concerned. When the wind blew cold, she drew even closer.

"You don't seem very mad at me anymore." Tig commented.

She thought about that for a moment, and replied, "I'm too tired to keep it up. You aren't acting like I'm poisoned for being June's sister tonight."

"You're not very much like her."

"Thank heaven for that, right?"

"A-fucking-men."

Anne asked him a few questions about how MCs worked. She didn't ask for details about Sam Crow or what her sister had done. She listened more than she spoke, and Tig found it easy to relax with her. In return, she dropped the stony mask of indifference. When silence descended, she was comfortable in it, tucked under his arm and watching the lights of cars out on the main road pass them by.

He knew he could probably lure her back down to bed and fuck her all over again, reasserting himself over Half-Sack's connection with her, but something held him back. He realized, to some surprise, that he liked her. She was clever and undramatic. Even under gunfire she'd kept her cool and gotten him free. Not many men could do that. Anne fought her own battles. He liked her the way he liked Tara and Gemma. She was real to him.

But unlike the doc or Clay's old lady, this woman was warm and quiet in his arms, no one else's. There hadn't been someone like that in his life for nearly a decade.

Tig's world was the Sons—there just wasn't room for anything else. A woman could make you soft, pull your attention away from the club, shift your priorities. They were a burden when you needed both hands free to protect your brothers. Tig didn't want that. He wanted his SAMCRO brethren beyond and above anything else. But here was Anne, an intoxicating mix of fierce and frail. She made him feel strong. She fucked like she loved him. She also quieted the loneliness he'd learned to tune out. Gemma and Tara were real because they respected the club and let their men do what needed to be done. Was that something Anne could do?

But really, how much of her wanting to be with him was just because he'd been an ally inside Connor's warehouse?

He rubbed at his temple, and looked down at Anne. She looked half asleep, her eyes only barely open. Soon, he thought, he'd rouse her enough to get back down the stairs and into bed. To sleep, not fuck. But for awhile, he would just enjoy the quiet companionship of another human being sharing his space. He knew it would hurt Anne when he inevitably pulled away, but the uncomplicated pleasure of her warm skin against his was something he just wasn't ready to let go.


	11. Chapter 11

***

_Thank you for all the reviews—I really like seeing them pop up in my email during the day. _

_I've still got more story, but work is taking a lot of energy right now while I struggle with a steep learning curve. I need to write another chapter or two from scratch before I get into scenes I wrote before I started publishing. _

_While I was working on this chapter, I listened to the song Superman Tonight by Bon Jovi. It seems appropriate for the kind of relationship Tig and Anne have. _

"_There's something about you  
I want to rescue  
I don't even know you  
So what does that mean_

_Maybe I'm cynical  
I'm painfully logical  
You're tragic and beautiful  
And that's good enough for me."_

_Oh, Bon Jovi, your sticky sweet love songs always leave me feeling squishy, you bastard. _

_-B._

***

It would have been so easy to follow Anne into Jax's apartment. She was sleepy, but there was an invitation in the curve of her smile and the way her hand lingered on his arm. She didn't say a word, and her eyes stayed gentle when he stepped back and turned away. Tig couldn't understand how a woman capable of such icy calculation and vicious execution was so very sweet with him.

_No chains_, she'd said. But Tig could feel the chains of temptation reeling him in. He didn't want to hurt her, but the more time he spent with her, the more it was likely to happen. Matters of blood aside, Anne had done Sam Crow more than one solid favour in the Nord warehouse. For that, she deserved better than Tig had to offer. He loved women, but never for very long. Her vulnerability made her precious, but she'd been hurt enough without the folly of setting her heart on Tig.

The fact that he could be fucking a beautiful and willing woman at this moment, and the certainty that he wasn't going to… that was a chain. His affection for Anne controlled him.

His bed felt empty. Usually, he liked it that way. Tig slept fitfully, dreaming of blood and screaming. He saw Anne in the Nord warehouse, but it wasn't Connor she stabbed—it was Agent Stahl. She looked over her sister's body at him and her eyes were black with hate. He reached for her, to pull her away from the growing puddle of blood, but she cringed as if he terrified her.

The body at their feet wasn't Stahl anymore. It was Donna. He could hear Anne crying, and Tig hated himself.

On waking, alone and surly, Tig dressed and went to find Clay. It was time to get Anne out of Charming.

***

Things seemed to move very quickly once Clay decided to lay things out with the Nords and contacted Darby. Tig waited outside the prison with Happy and Bobby while Clay dealt with the imprisoned Nord leader; no Son travelled alone since the attack. When Clay stepped back out into the sunlight, a deal had been struck.

Darby denounced Connor as a sociopathic maniac whose actions jeopardized every commercial and ideological goal the Nords held dear. He would use his influence to smooth the jagged edges Matthew Connor left behind. So long as Anne kept her mouth shut, no Nord would touch her. Darby, of course, was pleased with the whole thing. Connor leaving the Nordics so terribly vulnerable handed all the power back into Darby's hands.

It was, Tig reflected, a shit deal for Anne. If he was in her position, with the potential wrath of ATF at her fingertips, he wasn't sure he'd have made the same choice. However, ATF coming down on the Nords with all the ammo a pretty, mainstream and martyred woman could bestow them was bad news for everyone with one foot on the wrong side of the law. Anne keeping her mouth shut was the best thing for the Sons. Meanwhile, Anne didn't want anyone to know what had been done to her, or what she, in turn, had done.

Tig had not touched Anne since the evening on the roof. He kept his distance. He tried not to watch her with Half-Sack, but his eyes always sought her out. He wanted her. He wanted her gone.

She was waiting for them, anxious to learn the result of the deal, sitting at the bench outside Teller-Morrow. Predictably, Half-Sack was sprawled next to her. Anne had approved of approaching Darby, but talking about the Nords made her visibly distressed. Over the last few days, she'd been calmer and less skittish, but there were still Sons who she flinched away from. Making deals with Nords was way out of her comfort zone, and she'd faded back into Kip's shadow.

"You've got work to do." Tig raised an eyebrow at Half-Sack. The boy gave him a cautioning look but silently scooted off the table and went back to the garage.

Happy slowed as he walked past, his eyes on Anne, who looked away. Tig waited until his brothers were inside before he sat next to her.

"Well?" Anne said.

"Darby thinks he can enforce that deal and keep the Nords off you. When he gives the word, we'll put you on a plane home."

Anne didn't react at all for a moment, and then she stood.

"Thank you." She said, quietly, and turned to walk back into the clubhouse.

Tig didn't think. He reached out and caught her wrist before she could leave. Anne flinched violently, and he remembered how Connor had similarly controlled her. She recovered her composure quickly, but Tig felt like a bastard and released her. The look she turned on him was one of heart-ache.

"Aren't you happy?" Tig asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her smile was ironic.

"You won't always be this scared."

She shrugged. Her deep green eyes sought his for understanding. "I killed a man. It was _easy_. And now I'm going to go back to helping kids figure out what's right and wrong? _I _don't know what's right and wrong anymore."

"You'll find a way through it. You're tough."

"Yeah. I will. But that life isn't going to fit anymore. I'm going to have to build something new." She bit her lip. "And I'm never going to look at another one of those shithead delinquent kids the way I used to."

Tig laughed. "Shithead delinquent kids. Is that the professional term?"

Some humour lit her green eyes. "Only when they're shitheads. Some of them are just jerks."

Tig stood. "Babe, you're gonna be just fine. C'mon, celebratory drink?"

"Oh god, yes."

It wasn't the first time he'd heard those words from her lips. Tig grinned. Anne seemed to sense what he was thinking and shook her head, a faint blush rising on her pale cheeks.

Anne was a confident but moderate drinker. She'd drink hard liquor, but stuck to her limit despite the entreaties of Half-Sack, Juice and Chibs, who claimed it wasn't a celebration unless you passed out at the end of it. Tig found that he liked being the one at her side, leaving Half-Sack across the bar. A buzzed Anne was surprisingly fun. She laughed more, gradually warming to brothers other than Tig and Kip.

The hour turned and activity in the clubhouse increased. It was a Friday. Sons and associates were playing pool and drinking. Not so rowdy as a party, but rowdy enough. Usually Anne retreated long before the music was turned up. Tonight, she stayed at Tig's side, drunk enough to laugh at Juice's story about Half-Sack and the dead deer while Kip protested.

Tig looked around the room and thought about Anne's place with Sam Crow. She had distanced herself thoroughly; but alone with him, and now drunk on rum, the sparks of personality that showed through convinced him that her remoteness was a reaction to trauma, not her normal state. In this moment, surrounded by brothers with a drink in her hand, Anne looked like she belonged. She was wearing one of Tara's sleeveless shirts and had shed Kip's hooded sweatshirt earlier in the evening. Her hair was tousled around her face in loose curls. She was beautiful and relaxed, all traces of her grief and fear pushed back by rum and will-power.

His gaze fell on Happy, who was playing pool across the room. The Nomad's eyes lifted to Anne as her laugh rang out, then shifted to Tig. His expression spoke clearly—_if you don't want that, I do._

Tig snorted. No surprise that Happy was twisted enough to tumble a girl who'd threatened him with a knife. Tig was the same kind of twisted. It wasn't a hard decision to make. He doubted Happy would find much traction with the girl—she was particularly edgy with the Nomad. However, he didn't want to see Happy try. Tig reached out and pushed a lock of Anne's hair behind her ear. It wasn't just a flirtatious gesture; it was a way of marking territory. Her bright eyes cast him a brief and gauging look. When Tig put his arm around her waist, she went still, then relaxed.

There was still a risk in letting himself have Anne, even for a few nights, but knowing that her time was limited made him feel safer. She'd leave, and things would go back to normal. In the meantime, enjoying the short-term company of an attractive woman was what Tig did best.

The bartender was busy, so Tig stood and reached for a bottle, filling the empty shot-glass in Anne's hand. As he leaned over her, he breathed the sweetness of her scent and let her soft hair brush against his arm. She protested the shot, but Tig lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered. "You do this for me, I'll make it worth your while."

It was delightful to be with a woman who blushed. She hesitated, as if letting him think she might reject his offer, then she downed the shot in one smooth movement. She smiled ruefully and leaned back against his chest, tilting her head to whisper back at him. "Drinking like this, I really don't think I'm going to be able to make it back to my bedroom on my own."

Tig slid a hand over her thigh and squeezed lightly. Anne shivered. Then she dragged her fingernails lightly across his hand. He grinned.

Across the bar, Half-Sack knew perfectly well what was going on. He raised his beer bottle to Tig in a salute, and left the bar to follow a crow eater he'd been with at the welcome-home party. There was no resentment on his face.

Later, tangled together in Anne's bed, she was fierce. There was a note of desperation to her as she moved against him. Every time he started to take control, she'd push him back and distract him with her mouth and hands. It was _very_ distracting, and it took him some time to realize that this was her way of dealing with pain. Tig was hesitant to be rough with her, after all she'd been through, but enough was enough. He firmly seized her and rolled to put her beneath him. She made a noise of protest and pushed back, but Tig was insistent and much stronger than she was.

There was a brief battle of wills in their locked gazes before she surrendered. Anne closed her eyes and let him press his lips against the faded bruises on her throat. Her moan made him grin, and he moved across her unresisting body while her hands tangled loosely in his hair.

Tig stayed the night, drowsing with Anne curled tightly against him. She occasionally twitched in her sleep, as if chasing nightmares, but would subside when he ran a hand over her tangled hair or down her naked side. He realized, with some regret, that he would miss her when she left.


	12. Chapter 12

***

_Busy life, but writing when I can. I'm trying to keep the quality from slipping too much while still updating something that isn't pitifully short. _

_A couple notes on authenticity: I've spent time in So-Cal, but never this region. I found a Camanche Reservoir on google maps, but the park is fictional. Calgary, on the other hand, really does have a problem with white supremicist crap. Alberta tends to be more conservative and right-wing than the rest of Canada, and for whatever reason, Calgary is a hotspot for neo-nazis. The demonstration/counter-demonstration dance is getting tedious. Good people by far out number the trash, and it's a lovely city on the whole, but I can't think of anywhere else in this country where someone would parade around with a swastika banner. Lame. If she stays in Calgary, poor Anne is probably going to see a neo-nazi demonstration once or twice a year.  
_

"_Lightning strikes  
Inside, my chest to keep me up at night  
Dream of ways  
To make you understand my pain_

_If you want more love,  
why don't you say so?_

_Drop his name  
Push it in and twist the knife again  
Watch my face  
As I pretend to feel no pain"_

_John Mayer ain't usually my thing, but Heartbreak hit my music stream at work today and really resonated. It's a good song for conflicted lovers. Assassin is another Mayer song that I listened to while finishing this chapter. Highly recommended by this cynic. __With only slight embarassment, I will admit that I have a playlist of stuff that seems appropriate for this story. _

_Thanks again for the sweet reviews. They're motivation to keep forging ahead with this.  
_

_-B_

_***_

Looking pale but lovely in the bright afternoon sun, Anne regarded Tig, her face full of trepidation. He laughed out loud and pressed the helmet into her hands. She bit her lip. Her reproachful gaze slid to his new Dyna, a sleek black beast of a bike that had arrived the day before.

"You wanted to get outside. This is how I do outside."

She looked at the helmet in her hands as if it was a mysterious foreign object. Her voice was plaintive. "After all I've survived I really don't want to get killed on a motorcycle."

The woman who'd told Nords to go fuck themselves was scared of a _motorcycle_. It was deeply amusing. He echoed her tone. "After all you've survived, you're too chicken shit to get on a bike? Don't you trust me?"

Tig had thrown it out as a joke, but Anne considered the question carefully. Then she nodded slowly. "No crazy stuff, okay? No showing off."

He raised his eyebrows and tried to look innocent. He couldn't quite keep the mocking tone from his voice. "Is fast okay?"

A smile lit Anne's face. "Fast is always okay. Just… careful fast."

"Careful fast." Tig repeated.

"Promise."Anne waited, mistrustfully holding the helmet, looking at him with a level green stare.

"Fine, _careful fast._" Whatever that meant. The sooner Anne manned up and put the helmet on, the sooner he could show her what his kind of freedom looked like.

Anne was calm and resigned, but when she mounted behind him he could feel her tension. Poor kid really was scared of motorcycles, but was going to trust him anyway. Or maybe she just wanted out of the clubhouse badly enough to chance it. Tig smiled. Either way, it was sexy. When he started the motor, she held him tightly, arms clasped around his waist as if for life. He reached back and ran his hand down her leg as reassurance and turned the throttle.

Gradually, he felt Anne's fear fade as they hit the open highway. She relaxed into him. He hoped she was enjoying the ride and not just enduring it. It would be very disappointing to find a woman he liked who didn't appreciate the joy of a motorcycle and the open road. Not that it mattered—she was leaving anyway. But he wanted to give her this before she left. After all the time she'd spent trapped, the best gift he could give her was freedom.

When he increased the speed, her arms briefly tightened. He knew it was a hug, not panic. The highway slipped away beneath them and it felt like flying. Tig felt whole and happy. Over the roaring road and the engine, he heard the music of Anne's delighted laughter.

Anne had wanted him to take her out, away from the clubhouse. He'd asked where she wanted to go, and her only answer was, "Anywhere."

So he aimed towards the Camanche National Park. It was only a half hour away, but would give Anne a taste of fresh air and California beauty before she stepped on a plane and away. Tomorrow. So little time before she vanished.

It felt good to have her warm and close, riding with him. The weather was clear and cool for summer. Perfect weather for a ride. The bike didn't quite have the seamless feeling of being a part of him that his old one had, but that would come. It was more powerful than his last bike and he pushed it to devour the asphalt. Tearing along, far faster that the speed limit, there was no protest from Anne.

Tig picked an empty patch of parkland near the water. It wasn't much more than a stretch of verdant grass overlooking the water, but the view was free of urban clutter. The reservoir stretched before them, vast and vividly blue. When he killed the engine, the immediate silence was striking and welcome. Nothing but wind, water, and a few birds. Tig had spent more than a few evenings up here drinking and smoking, or getting fucked up with brothers. It was a good place to get away.

He tilted his face to the sun and sighed in satisfaction, then dismounted. As he'd hoped, Anne's eyes had lost their haunted look. With one of Gemma's leather jackets thrown over jeans and a t-shirt, she even looked like an old lady, completely at ease on the back of a bike.

"Careful. You'll probably be stiff." Tig offered her his hand. It was a long trip for someone who wasn't used to riding.

"Nope." She stood on her own, graceful as ever. Her gaze was wide and entirely focused in the distance, drinking in the view.

"Thought you'd never ridden."

"Not a motorcycle. I have a horse." She smiled wistfully.

Tig raised an eyebrow. He remembered the horse charm on her gold necklace. "And you're a good rider, I bet."

"Haven't had too many complaints. I'm not bad with horses, either." She delivered the innuendo deadpan, still focused more on the shimmering water of the reservoir than him. Tig grinned.

"How did I not know this?" He asked.

"It never came up." Her eyes slid to Tig. She offered a half-smile. "There's a lot more to me than just stabbing Nazis."

Anne walked towards the water. Around other Sons, she always stayed close by him or Kip. Here, with no one else around, she was unafraid to stand alone. Stopping just before the grass gave way to sand, she sat with a happy sigh. Anne leaned back, running her hands through the blades of grass. At her beckoning smile, Tig joined her, bemused and pleased by her happiness. The mother of his girls wouldn't have been impressed by a picnic table; she'd never have cheerfully sprawled on the grass. White trash with pretensions. Anne, on the other hand, was demonstrably not afraid to get messy.

Tig lit a cigarette and joined her. There was a serenity and isolation here that he appreciated, but his mind was stuck on death. Anne bringing up the stabbing meant it was on her mind too. Connor was the kind of killing that men like Tig were supposed to do—not innocent women. "You regret it?"

"Regret that he's dead? No." Anne shrugged, but her posture tensed slightly. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and looked out over the blue water. She spoke without emotion. "But I'm scared that I care so little. Shouldn't I feel terrible?"

"He deserved it."

"Yes. It doesn't undo the things he did, though." She touched her neck. "It feels strange to _not_ wear the chain. When I dream, it's still there."

"The chain bothered you more than getting hit." Tig guessed.

"It all bothered me. I can't find my way back from it." Anne bit her lip thoughtfully. "Would you have killed Connor if I hadn't?"

"Oh yeah. Or Sack would've."

"And it wouldn't bother you at all."

"Not a bit."

Anne seemed satisfied with that. She looked at him sidelong through a lock of auburn hair. "Are you pissed I got him first?"

"Only a little. You can make it up to me sometime."

Anne laughed and rested her head on his arm. It was such a trusting gesture, and one he noticed she usually did when she felt vulnerable. After a long moment of silence, she spoke again. "Not much time left till I'm gone. I don't think I'm going to stay in Calgary, though."

"Isn't that your home?" Tig asked. The concept of home mattered to him. It wasn't just something you threw away.

"I've made fresh starts before. It might be time for another." Anne plucked a blade of grass and began meticulously shredding it. Her tone was casual. "I don't know. Maybe I'll feel like myself again after I get that goddamn swastika off my skin. Right now, I feel like a monster."

"Never feel bad about what you did. You were brave."

Anne was quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed on the water. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and small. "I'm scared that I'm turning into June."

What could he say to that? It was ridiculous. Tig scowled at her. "Last I checked, you weren't a giant goddamn bitch."

Anne smiled and said nothing. She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. There was a deep comfort in that, but it was layered with guilt. This was the kind of comfort his mistake had taken away from Opie and his children. He didn't deserve this.

"Did, uh, Kip ever tell you what your sister did?"

Anne's head lifted. "No. She killed someone, didn't she?"

Tig withdrew his hand from Anne's. He didn't want to feel her pull away from him when he told her what he'd done. If she thought of herself as a monster, what could she possibly think of him?

It hurt, but once he started talking, he couldn't stop. The truth came hard and without mercy. He didn't play down his part in it. It drowned him and he couldn't look at the woman who sat quiet and still at his side. He told her about trying to kill Opie, and failing. Then trying again and killing Donna. And, at the heart of it, the horror of learning that it was all a trick. Agent Stahl playing them all like puppets, then walking away unscathed.

Anne listened. She did not pull away. In fact, she went perfectly still, as if she was back in the warehouse waiting for violence to seize her. Tig felt sick. But he kept talking, spilling the ugly secrets of Sam Crow.

When he finished, Anne didn't say a word. She sat quietly for a moment, then she shifted towards him and calmly wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his like a living bandage. When he didn't push her away, she held him as tightly as she had on the bike. Her lips were soft on his neck as she embraced him.

There were no words. Anne was a silent channel for his grief, feeling it with him. When Tig composed himself, he felt less burdened. Less alone. It wasn't absolution, but it was something. He wrapped his arm around Anne and pulled her around so that she was tucked under his chin. He stroked her hair and listened to the soft and steady sound of her breathing. No words.


	13. Chapter 13

***

_So here's a relatively long chapter with some borderline smut. Sorry. I didn't mean to be away for so long. I've been poking at the story almost every day, but parts of this were slow going, and I'm a bit over-committed. I know this looks like the end. It's not. Anne isn't gone for good. I just wouldn't like her so much if she weren't strong enough to go be a complete person without a man. _

_I'm aiming to have another update for next Sunday. Ironically, it may not be possible due to my writer's group, in which I pretend that I would never, ever write anything so derivative and wish-fulfilling as fanfiction. _

_The C&C song of the day is Ian Brown's Keep What Ya Got. Good shit. It's got a good vibe of resolve and endurance, which is a theme for this chapter. _

"_When your halo slips for good you'll have to wear your hood  
Could you feel the breeze of fear on all the cynics, I'm ya mimick  
All you losers, all abusers, wasting all my precious energy_

_Keep what ya got by giving it all away."_

_Anyway, I hope the editing quality hasn't slipped too much. Reviews are welcome and encouraged. I'd probably have stopped working on this by now without the lovely comments to motivate me. Thanks guys._

_-B._

***

Tig dropped Anne at the clubhouse and went right back out on the road. She was preoccupied with her own thoughts, though during the ride into Charming her hold on him was just as firm and trusting as it had been on the way to Camanche. She didn't seem to mind being left at Teller-Morrow without him.

As he pulled back out of the courtyard, he saw Gemma intercepting Anne. He didn't want to think too hard about that. He hoped the queen was still playing nice.

It was hard to not draw comparisons between the women, however. Anne had a deceptive softness to her, all still and passive in the face of threats, patiently waiting for the moment to act. It wasn't just stabbing Connor; it was also in how she handled Opie when he threatened her. She acted when she needed to act, and didn't tip her hand until she'd decided what was needed. Gemma, on the other hand, rarely hesitated. She had more bark to her bite than Anne, wielding her voice—and occasionally a manicured fist—as a vicious weapon. Even so, both women were capable of an icy decisiveness. It was admirable.

Tig realized that he was trying to imagine a place for Anne within the world of Sam Crow. No good could come of that line of thought. He hit the highway and pushed the bike to sweet place between loss of control and the enticement of speed. In that state of suspended bliss, he didn't have to think about anything at all. The wind obliterated thought, and it was good.

By this time tomorrow, Anne would be in Canada. Safe from him, and out of reach. He drove faster.

Several hours later, Tig returned as the last rays of sunlight were slanting directly against the windows of the clubhouse. Happy greeted him in the courtyard with a smirk and the offer to take Anne to the airport in the morning. Tig laughed darkly and ignored him. The Nomad clearly thought it was hilarious to see him interested in a woman for more than one night. What a shithead. Tig stepped around Happy and into the clubhouse. His eyes immediately fell on Anne, who stood with Tara near the pool table. Both women held cues. She was still wearing Gemma's jacket, and her hair shone like copper against the black leather. Tig wondered if she was any good at playing.

Gemma intercepted him before he got halfway to the bar, stepping in front of him with crisp click of her heeled boots.

"Evening, Tigger. How's it going?" The sweetness in her tone made him cringe.

"Oh, you know. Healing up good." Tig's eyes drifted to the game of pool. He forced himself to focus on Gemma, whose knowing smile twitched.

She raised an eyebrow. "And how's little orphan Annie doing?"

He nodded towards the game of pool, where Anne was lining up a shot. She looked composed. No joy in her narrowed green eyes, but resolve and confidence enough focus on something other than the men around her. Tig smiled. As Anne leaned over the table in a low-cut shirt, her breasts lookedfantastic. "Looks pretty good to me, Gem."

"She does at that, doesn't she?" Gemma cast a cool gaze over her shoulder at Anne and Tara. "And how does Half-Sack look, d'ya think?"

Tig frowned and looked at the prospect. Kip leaned against the wall behind Anne, drinking beer with a morose expression on his face. Now that Gemma had called his attention to it, he noticed the gauntness to Half-Sack's lanky frame. He'd lost a lot of weight in a very short time. The boy's eyes were shadowed and he looked both alert and wary in ways he never had before Lodi.

One day, Tig decided, he was going to find out what happened to Half-Sack in that warehouse. It was too easy to forget about the screaming and the marks on Kip's body—Tig didn't want to remember them. Remembering didn't help. Once revenge was dealt out, you walked on with whatever you had left. But Half-Sack might be carrying far too heavy a burden. Tig realized, with painful certainty, that for all the appearance of Anne hiding behind Kip, the reverse might be just as true.

"He looks like shit."

"He's not happy to see your little angel flying away. He asked her to stay. She said no." That was news to Tig. He shifted his weight and said nothing. Gemma continued. "So I'm wondering here, how much of a stake do you have in that girl?"

Tig tried not to let his eyes betray any hesitation. It was useless; Gemma could read him like a goddamn book. "We just, y'know, have fun."

Gemma's eyebrow twitched. "Fun."

"She's not some crow eater. She's like you." Tig said, a moment before realizing it was probably a bad observation to say out loud.

Thankfully, Gemma didn't take offense. She acknowledged the comment with a slight nod.

"The girl has claws, I'll give her that." Gemma said with grudging respect. "But I'm all about family. And that's just not how Anne thinks. I don't know what kind of house that chick came out of, but no one's going to be accusing the Stahl sisters of being too clingy any time soon."

He knew Gemma was smarter than he was. He'd known the queen long enough to sense when she was yanking his strings, but he couldn't always tell what her intentions were. "What are you telling me?"

"Honey, I'm not telling you anything except to open your eyes. After what she did, that girl deserves better than to get dicked around by a bunch of bikers—but she's got an affect on you that ain't such a bad thing." Gemma's eyes slid to Half-Sack. "And she might be the only thing holding Kip together right now."

"Aw Gem, she's just a girl. She's sweet, but c'mon..."

"I see the way she looks at you. It ain't the way she looks at Half-Sack, that's for sure. And you're look'n right back at her. But Tig, she's not some needy hanger-on. She'll walk away from you to prove that she can."

"What am I supposed to do about that?"

"If you want her? Catch her. If not, get out of her way and let her go. She's been hurt enough. We can put Half-Sack back together without her if we have to."

"You like her, don't you." Tig said. It was unexpected, but there it was.

"I get her. Doesn't mean I like her." Gemma said with some warning in her tone. "But she got you and Half-Sack home. Girl's earned mercy. She gets it from the club, and she gets it from me. If she decides to stick around, I'm okay with it. God knows I could use another woman around here with more than three brain cells to click together."

"What changed your mind?"

"What she does to you." Gemma smiled and placed her delicate hand on Tig's cheek. Darlin', there's light in you I haven't seen in a long time. Maybe it's just getting laid more often, but it's good to see you happy."

"The club makes me happy. Anne's just... fun."

"Well, suit yourself." Gemma patted his cheek and sauntered away, her heeled boots clicking loudly on the floor.

He wanted to go to Anne. It was as if there was a chain pulling him into her, but he resisted and went to the bar instead. The black-haired woman pouring drinks gave him a smoky-eyed look of invitation. He thanked her and moved on. It was hard to take his eyes off Anne.

From across the room, Tig watched as Jax joined the two women. The VP put his arms around Tara's waist and the doc leaned back into him, an effortless smile softening her face. Jax laughed at something she said briefly pressed his cheek against hers. Tig tried to imagine what it might feel like to have that kind of thing in his life again. It hurt.

Anne had stepped back when Jax approached. Tig saw the betrayal of tension in her hands. It hurt her too, he guessed. Or maybe she was just frightened of Jax. Her eyes flicked up and met Tig's. He expected to see blankness on her face. Instead he saw pain. Then it smoothed away, and she turned to hand the pool cue to Juice. Anne walked away from the game and down the hall towards the apartment.

Tig closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't have to go to her. He could take the black-haired bartender instead and fuck her. He could get drunk. He could leave. He put the beer bottle down and followed Anne.

When he walked through the door, she was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. She looked up as he came in, but recognizing that he was alone, her eyes dropped back to the small bundle of paper in her hands.

"Hey." Tig said.

He came to stand in front of Anne, close enough to smell the soap on her skin and hear the sound of her breathing. She didn't react. Tig took the documents from her unresisting hands. They were the forms to replace her missing passport and get her back to Canada. He set them on the counter behind her. She didn't flinch away from him, but he felt her shiver when his hands touched hers.

Her reaction, subtle as it was, told him enough. He slid his hand under the soft weight of her hair and stroked the back of her neck. Still, Anne remained silent, though she inhaled sharply. She'd closed her eyes, and Tig watched her eyelashes tremble as he trailed his hand down her back. With his other hand, he smoothed her soft hair back and rested his palm on her face. Her skin looked pale and delicate against the roughness of his tanned mechanic's hands. Anne made a soft sound and for a brief moment, her body swayed into him. Then she pushed at him half-heartedly, as if trying to break free.

Tig sensed that the thing she was fighting was herself, not him. He wasn't holding her tightly enough to stop her if she really wanted to get away. He tilted her face upward and kissed her. She was perfectly still for a half second, then she kissed him back. Instead of pushing him away, her hands clenched in his shirt.

It was hard to stay gentle. She made him feel strong, and he wanted to make her scream for him. If there was a chain between them, it pulled her as well, and that was a power he wanted to taste. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the counter so that her legs went around him for balance. She gave an arousing sound of surprise, but couldn't say anything with his mouth ravaging hers. Tig slid his hands under her shirt and down the smooth and silky line of her back.

Under his fingers, he could feel the healing remains of the welts Connor's hand had left. He broke the kiss looked down at her, searching for a sign that she wanted him to stop. What he saw made him growl with pleasure, wrap his arms around her and carry her to the bed.

Anne was intense. She fought him for control, and seemed to be fighting herself just as much. She fucked like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Tig felt the desperation and grief in it, echoing his own. He tried to be gentle, but she wasn't content with that. She demanded strength and savagery, which he gave her. She mirrored it back, and for a time, everything went away except the heat and flesh of their bodies. In this moment, there was only Anne, fierce and willing and entirely focused on him.

Later, when they lay together, salty with sweat and past the point of exhaustion, Tig could not imagine ever letting her go.

Deep in the hours before dawn, Tig knew she was awake when her head lifted from his shoulder. It wasn't how she moved in her dreams. He lay still, eyes closed. Her weight shifted, and he felt her sitting upright in bed, her breathing slow and even. He was considering sliding an arm around her and pulling her down against him again when he felt her fingertips lightly touching his face. Her lips brushed his forehead as softly as butterfly wings, and he felt her leave the bed.

In the dark, Tig opened his eyes and watched Anne's shadow slip away into the washroom. A moment after the door closed, he heard her uneven but quiet sobs. It was heartbreaking. She had plenty of reasons to cry; he knew he was one of them.

When Anne returned, her steps near-silent and sure in the dark, Tig didn't pretend to be asleep. He sat up to lean against the headboard and reached for her. Anne went to him without hesitation and curled up against his bare chest, her head tucked under his chin. She'd put on a SAMCRO t-shirt, but under it, her naked body felt chilled.

"What if you stayed?" Tig immediately wished he hadn't said the words out loud. He knew from the catch in her breath that Anne understood the significance of the question.

"I can't."

"You stick around, your sister couldn't touch us again. Conflict of interest. ATF wouldn't let her near Charming." As he said it out loud, he realized that Gemma had already followed that line of thought. No wonder she'd given Anne the blessing to stay.

Anne kept her face hidden against his shoulder, but he could feel her lips twitch with a smile. "ATF repellant."

"Why not?" He didn't want her to love him, but he didn't want her gone either.

Anne lifted her head and kissed his throat. Her voice was low. "I want you. But if I stick around now, half-broken and hanging onto you and Kip, it'll go bad."

It was the same thing Tig had thought a dozen times, but it was hard to hear it from her. She was right. He could feel her fear, but also her stubborn determination to walk on through it. It was almost funny—he'd been worried about her getting too attached to him, but she was the one adamant about leaving. She would pick the harder path if it lead to what she needed; that quality saved Half-Sack's life and kept him from being crippled. The only woman he'd ever met who so cleanly separated needs from wants was Gemma.

It wouldn't stay good if Anne hung around. He nodded slowly and swallowed back a spar of anger at the rejection. She was still hanging onto like she'd fall apart if she let go.

"You gonna be okay, kid?"

She thought about it and nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."

Fuck it. Tig had taken off his rings and bracers when he'd started to fall asleep next to Anne. Now he reached over and picked up one of the leather bracers. It had steel studs on it and was one he'd recovered from the Lodi warehouse. To him, the bracers were a kind of spiritual armour—part of his persona as the Sergeant at Arms.

"Take this. When it gets bad, if you start making yourself crazy over what happened, and can't tell anyone—you hang on to it and remember that I was there with you. I know how strong you are."

Anne sat fully upright and looked at the leather bracelet as if she didn't entirely understand what it was. Then she closed her eyes. She looked as if she might cry again, and Tig immediately regretted the impulse to give her the damn thing. She visibly struggled to push back emotion, and succeeded. She slipped the oversize bracer around her slender wrist and put her arms around him.

At some point, Tig fell asleep again, propped up against the pillows and headboard with Anne practically curled up in his lap like a cat. When he woke, she was gone. He could hear the showering running. He looked at the clock and then at light pressing in from the blinds, and sighed. It was time to be the Sergeant again.

An hour later, standing in the courtyard at his side, Anne was distant. It wasn't quite the blankness she showed when she was scared, but she'd turned inward. She was either oblivious or indifferent to the conversation around her. She didn't even flinch when Happy smiled at her—she just kept looking off at nothing, holding a small pack Gemma had given her. Tig's bracer was around her wrist, but hidden under her jacket sleeve.

The run to Oakland's airport included Tig, Half-Sack, Happy, and Clay. The President wasn't comfortable with Anne at all, but felt that it was important to honour what she'd done for the club. Happy, however, had some bullshit excuse about checking in on Nomad buddies outside Oakland.

Tig called Happy on it, letting some hostility show. He liked Hap—hell, it'd be a good day if Happy ever decided to join the Redwood Chapter—but pushing in on Anne was a dick move.

"She's your girl. I respect that." Happy grinned. "But I like her. She's a survivor. Ain't gonna touch, man."

"Better fucking not." Muttered Tig. Then he thought about the words _your girl_. Fuck.

Some awareness had surfaced in Anne's eyes. Her gaze flicked from Tig to Happy. She looked away while pushing a lock of her hair back behind her ear. The movement briefly flashed Tig's bracer as her sleeve shifted.

Happy started to laugh. Tig handed Anne her helmet and stiff-shouldered Happy out of the way to get to his Dyna.

Half-Sack frowned. "What?"

"Nothing." Tig and Happy said simultaneously. Anne's mask of serene indifference slipped enough to show a slight smile as she climbed on the back of Tig's bike. Her arms tightened around him in a fierce hug before she relaxed against him.

The ride to Oakland barely took two hours. From there, another half hour to reach the airport. At the Departures Gate, Clay and Happy withdrew to have a smoke, leaving Tig to watch as Anne threw her arms around Half-Sack. He would have been jealous, but Sack looked like he hadn't slept in days, and he was hanging onto Anne like a kid clinging to mom, not like he was holding a beautiful woman.

Anne whispered something to the boy, who shook his head. Tig couldn't hear everything Kip said, but he did catch the firm and weighted words, "I forgive you."

Reluctantly, Half-Sack released Anne and went to join Clay. Anne turned to Tig. Her voice was soft but plaintive. "Is there anything left to say?"

He started to ask her what Half-Sack could forgive, but it was too late to make a difference. Instead, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. She let her pack fall to the ground and flung her arms around him. He broke the kiss to breathe and looked into her mournfully sad green eyes. Tig had been afraid she'd lose her shit and cry, but she was steady in his arms.

"I wouldn't have made it out alive if you and Kip hadn't been there." Anne said, unprompted. "I'd given up. So you don't owe me shit, okay? We're even. All of us got our lives back."

"Yeah. Even." Tig repeated. He rubbed at his temple. "Go home and forget it, if you can."

Anne bowed her head for a long moment, and when she looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes. "One monster to another, Tig, I wish things could be different."

And then there were no words left. Anne reached for him and pulled him into a kiss that was deep, but somehow cold. It was a silent goodbye. Her hands tightened briefly in his cut, as if she was wrestling with herself to release him, and then she stepped back. With a brief smile of resolve, Anne picked up her pack and walked through the airport doors. She was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

***

Bonus chapter! The story has always been from Tig's eyes as he interacts with Anne. This is the same story from Anne's perspective. It's dark, and I anticipate that some of you will hate it. You are welcome to skip it without actually missing any developments at all. It's just another pair of eyes on snippets of Chapters 1-6.

I may do another chapter or two of catching Anne up to the events of Chapter 13. I haven't decided yet. If you feel strongly one way or another, let me know.

-B.

***

I am seven years old, and my hair is twisted around Juney's hand. She dragged me the top of the stairs and now holds me off balance so that her sharp, bruising fingers are the only thing keeping me from tumbling down the hardwood steps. If I struggle, she might drop me. If I cry, she might push me. This is a game we've played before. Every day, she becomes a little more like my father. I remain unresisting in her grip. It's the best option I have left.

I open my eyes and I am thirty-three. I'm holding a sharp vicious little knife. I imagine how easy it would be to lash out and cut the man across from me, instead of the boy beneath me. With a little luck, I'd hit an artery and he'd bleed out. That's how it would work on television. But incapacitating Connor would set the dogs free, and he's the only thing between me and a gang rape, followed by murder. I'm not ready to die yet. Almost. But not quite. I'm still scared.

Connor will hit me for it, but I need this boy to know that I'm not one of them. I lean down, my hair dragging in the blood on his face and say, "I'm so, so sorry."

And Connor's calloused palm smacks me hard enough to send me to my knees. Colour and light flash as I struggle to stand on uncertain limbs. If I stay down too long, he'll drag me to my feet, and I don't want him touching me. The boy's eyes are on me. He's furious.

For a moment, I let myself hate him. I don't know who he is or where he came from, but because he's here, Connor's games got worse. Connor wants me alive, and sometimes he even seems to want me to like him. This boy is disposable, and I'm so goddamn scared that it's going to be me who kills the poor bastard. Right now, he's still furious _for _me. Connor will make him furious _at_ me before the end. Four weeks in a twisted up little world of fluorescent light and leering Nazis, and I feel like I know every inch of this psychological and physical cage. Once you start to think like the monsters, it's all so fucking predictable.

***

The first time Connor threw me in with the black-haired biker, it was with a first aid kit and instructions to "keep the fucker alive." Half the visible tattoos on his bloodied body are grim reapers and death imagery. The irony is not lost.

First aid certification covers all kinds of things, but pulling metal shards out of unconscious thugs with shaking hands wasn't a chapter I paid much attention to. I don't believe in God, but as I work I pray; _don't wake up don't wake up don't wake up._ He sleeps like he's fighting for consciousness, fingers twitching as if he's dreaming of hurting someone. But he sleeps.

Connor is pleased when he returns. He inspects my work and smiles. I hate it when he's like that. It never lasts. He strokes my hair like I'm a well-behaved dog. He'll be sweet until he gets bored, and then he'll kick my feet out from under me and make me beg again. It gets a better reaction than unmitigated torment; the first stinging blow or vicious word always rocks me to the core. I know the pattern, but I don't know when the switch will flip, and waiting for it makes me crazy.

I cast a last glance at the biker sprawled out on the stained mattress. He's older and bigger than the boy. There's something stubborn about the lines of his face even in sleep. He looks like something out of Connor's world—all tattoos, violence, and savagery. Different wolf pack, but still a wolf. The only thing that makes him less dangerous is that he's not yet awake.

***

He says his name is Tig, and he's talking at me like he's trying to coax a scared cat out of a tree. I hate that it's working. I don't want to trust him. I don't want to give Connor any crack in my defenses to exploit. I'm running out of anger to protect myself and the black hopelessness is eating me alive. Still, I close my eyes and listen. Tig's gentle words wash over me like cool water on burned skin. I respond in spite of a resolution to stay silent.

He wants to know where I am when I'm not with him. What can I say? I'm wearing Kip's blood and I can smell Connor's sweat on my skin. I'd judged the moment Connor's arousal outweighed his lust for pain and pulled his attention away from the boy's body and onto mine. A price to pay there, but less than the one for watching a kid get cut to bits. My soul feels flayed.

When he invites me over to him, I feel as if I have no choice but to go. The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Or at least, he's something warm and human to lean against for a moment before Connor returns.

Tig radiates heat and comfort. I know he pities me, and I could hate him for that, but he seems to sense how desperately I need to rest. I don't mean to fall asleep, but when I begin to, I have no will to stop the slide into oblivion. Tig's hand touches my hair; I can't be bothered to stop him. There's no threat to it, though. His fingers trail over the chain and the bruises Connor left behind.

Merciful blackness swallows my soul, leaving my body to the mercy of bikers and gangsters. Oh Juney. You needed to play with monsters to feel alive, so shouldn't it be you wearing the chains and welts? When Connor fucks me, it's you he's dreaming of.

***

I lost control when I realized what they were going to do. Connor was delighted, of course, and personally helped pin me down so that his meat-headed thug of a tattoo artist could get at my back. They ripped my shirt tearing it off me. It was stupid to fight—just gets them all excited and thirsty for more pain and blood—but I panicked.

The tattoo hurt. It was a relentless, itching pain, every millimeter as much a violation as Connor's body on mine. I kept my eyes closed, knowing that Connor was watching me intently, drinking in every flinch and tear. To keep from screaming, I silently repeated the mantra _I will kill you, I will kill you_ over and over.

I stopped fighting when I couldn't draw enough air into my aching lungs. As I lay there, broken and defeated, the deeper voice, the one I try to never listen to, whispers the truth; _I will make you kill me._ Held down, the whine of the tattoo gun biting the air and my skin, I felt my fear take flight, leaving me both liberated and hollow.

When they were finished, Connor gently freed me. I remained limp and unresisting. While one of his thugs put gauze on my back, Connor petted my hair and whispered meaningless soft words of comfort, which I barely registered as sound. He recovered my ripped t-shirt and carefully pulled it over my head, solicitously trying not to touch my abused back.

He took my hand and dragged me to my feet. Dizziness almost pushed me back down, but Connor's arm held me up. He kissed me, and then handed me to the smiling son of a bitch who did the tattoo. I felt no fear at all, but without it, the anger chokes me.

"Toss her back in with the Sergeant. Let him see what we've got planned for him."

The thug didn't delay in marching me back to Tig's room, though he did roughly cop a feel on the way there. It wasn't necessary to shove me—I wasn't resisting at all—but he planted one meaty hand right on the fresh tattoo and pushed me through the door.

Tig's look of pity and helpless concern nearly undoes me, so I snap at him. I don't think he's used to girls being sharp with him. They probably all go starry eyed at the bad-boy tattoos and hawkish blue gaze. However, the poor bastard is bleeding again. Nothing calms me down like dealing with someone else's problems, and I focus on the blood welling up through the bandage on his side.

The blood on my hands makes me think about Kip, and how I can't do anything to help him if Connor decides to follow up my torment with more knife-play on Kip's body. So I still can feel fear—just not for myself. When Tig pointedly asks me about the screaming, I tell him the truth. Once I start, I can't stop. It bleeds from me.

He says I look scared, and it's too funny. I need to shut down and get my calm back before they come for me. Tig's kindness and pity will destroy my chance at controlling myself. I need to be ice, not fire.

***

It's the perfect moment to act. Sometimes calculated acts coincide with luck in such a way that it almost looks like fate.

Connor is out, which is the first strike of fortune. His soldiers, reluctant to screw around with me, are mocking Kip. They cut him down from the restraints and hand him a knife. Goading him, teasing him, they encircle Kip. The first kick lands in his side with a meaty thud, which excites them. Then a fist hits the back of his neck, and the knife falls from Kip's hand.

They're going to kill him. They won't even mean to do it—but they're wound up and high on the primal adrenaline of power. Kip's so beat down already, and it doesn't take more than a booted kick or two to damage something vital.

"Very macho." I say dryly. They aren't used to me talking much, but the condescension cuts through their high like a knife. I'm supposed to be scared. It breaks the mood if I impugn the very masculinity they're indulging.

I keep my eyes on the one with a swastika tattooed on his shaven scalp. He's the one with the cell phone holstered on his belt, but of course, I don't look at that. His attention on me is like having a train screaming down on you while you're standing on the tracks, but now that I'm in, there's no getting out. This could get me killed. But I'm going to get killed anyway, so I might as well gamble.

He's trying to intimidate me, not hurt me, but I'm goading him by pointing out how I'm fucking untouchable because of Connor. He'll castrate them for damaging me. I don't know if that's true, but some of them seem to think it is, because they try to pull the first thug off me as soon as his hand closes on my collar. I make a scene of shrieking and panicking, which isn't entirely feigned. The cell phone practically falls into my hand, and I get it into my pocket while kicking frantically at the gangster who still has a hand around my upper arm. They are almost comically focused on each other, a male pissing match over who gets to call the shots when Connor's out of sight.

"Just get her out of here!" One of the thugs says. Tig's room is closest, and they're used to pitching me in there after Connor's had his games, so that's where I get dragged.

More luck than I deserve.

***

I'm anxious that things have gone wrong. Connor's back, and although I'm not surprised to be pulled back to his side—even expecting some punishment for riling up his thugs—it's weird that he's brought out Tig. Either my plan is about to go very poorly, or the part of the game where Tig gets to play is just starting.

God help me, I hate for Tig to see me like this. Somehow, having him witness Connor treating me like an unloved pet dog makes it worse. I hope Connor can't smell it on me. He's uncanny about delving into weaknesses, and my heightened shame would give him double the joy of tearing me down.

Tig's eyes are so very blue and dangerous when he looks at me under Connor's hand. I stare back. _Don't try to protect me; don't you even show you care. _

It's a message which, improbably, Tig actually seems to read. He's flippant and dismissive of Connor's power over him. It's enviable. Watching him cut straight to the heart of Connor's games without cowering makes something long-dead and silent in me awaken. Surrounded by sharks, it's me and him, trying to navigate this sea. _I am not alone_.


	15. Chapter 15

_***_

_Instead of writing last weekend, I went to Vancouver to kick around downtown for the last couple days of the Olympics. Never seen anything like it. It was a party that went on for miles. Yeah. So I didn't write. Living was more fun. _

_But now I've caught some kind of vile Olympic plague. I wrote and edited about half of this with a fever after sleeping for 14 hours straight. Quality assured! It's another Annie-vision chapter, going over Chapter 9 from her eyes. Next chapter will move forward again, picking up a few months after Chapter 14 left off. _

_It's kind of funny how almost every SoA story has a scene with Gemma interrogating the OC. My version of Gem probably have been a lot sharper if the club weren't invested in keeping Anne quiet until they figure out what to do with her.  
_

_-B. _

_***_

Gemma is sitting on the couch in the living room when I emerge from the shower. She's facing away from the bathroom door, so I have a moment to take a deep breath before tucking my damp hair behind my ears and facing her. Legs primly crossed and a magazine in her lap, she looks as patient and inscrutable as the sphinx. I don't understand this world yet, but she's definitely a gatekeeper of some kind.

Her gaze locks on mine. This is a woman who is used to being in charge. She wears it like a crown.

I, however, am not in an obedient mood. When I woke this morning, it was from a vivid nightmare of kneeling over Kip with a knife in my hand. Sweat-soaked and shaking, I'd cried in the shower. Even that had hurt—the water stung the cuts on my back and turned the tattoo into one heavy burning ache between my shoulder blades.

"Morn'n Annie." Her eyes rake over my outfit of track pants and an old t-shirt with the letters SAMCRO blazed across the chest. She pats a pile of neatly folded clothes next to her. "Figured you might want a few more outfits since you're gonna be sticking around. You're too pretty to be going around in men's t-shirts."

"Fashion really isn't high on my priority list right now." I can count the number of people who call me _Annie_ on one hand, and I'm happy about adding this stranger to the list. I perch on the armrest farthest from her. She doesn't invoke the primal fear some of her men do, but that doesn't mean she's safe. It's better to keep myself out of reach.

Voice gentle and full of empathy, Gemma asks, "How are you feeling?"

I let my eyes narrow slightly at her, and shrug. It's a stupid question. I actually do feel better for having shared some frantic catharsis with Tig, but that's not something I'm talking about with anyone. I realize from the twitch of Gemma's lips that she almost certainly knows I had sex with him. I am remorseless.

"C'mon, babe. Get dressed and let's go put a pot of coffee on for the boys."

Something must betray my hesitation. Gemma's face softens. "You stay hiding, pretty soon, it's all you're going to know how to do. Don't worry about my boys. They're all still snoring in their own filth. No one would bother you anyway."

I'm a little bit taller than Gemma, but because I'm not wearing heels, the jeans fit well enough. It helps that I lost weight in Connor's care; trauma is an unsurprisingly effective diet. All the shirts she brought are form-fitting and flattering, which I'm less pleased about. I'm not ready to dress like a biker vixen, though before the Nordics, I'd have found it fun. I pick up the oversize plaid shirt that belongs to the doctor's boyfriend and wear it like a jacket. My body belongs to no one but myself.

In the hallway, Gemma's sharp eyes notice my increasing anxiety. She gives me a half-smile and places her warm, dry hand on my face. Its classic—she's setting the terms of our interactions, offering me approval and encouragement to confide in her. If I hadn't spent most of my life around people who take manipulation to a high art, I'd probably have bought it. I meet her gaze and hold it just a little too long to be comfortable. It's a way of letting her see that my walls are up and she's got a mile of barbed wire to cross before she gets anywhere close to the heart of me.

A less confident woman might have gone on the defensive. Gemma just looks amused. Inexplicably, she says, "Yeah, you'll do."

Do for what? Tig? I know she's married to Clay, but that doesn't necessarily mean very much. She doesn't seem jealous that I've been rolling around the sheets with her blue-eyed biker, but this is a different world than mine. The clubhouse is testament to that. Half naked women are draped on both furniture and bikers, and the whole place smells like a distillery.

"This bother you, babe?" Gemma asks. She's watching my face carefully.

"No." I step over the outstretched leg of a woman who is sleeping under the pool table, half sprawled in the embrace of a young biker. This isn't exactly how I like to end a night of partying, but I don't see any bruises or chains. To each their own.

"I hear you're a teacher."

I shake my head. "A counsellor."

"A shrink." Gemma's tone is cooler.

"No. I just help figure out what kids need. Sometimes that's a psychiatrist. Other times, not." It's a short answer, but I don't think she's actually curious about the neurotic teenage population of Lanbridge High.

"Fair enough. How'd you end up doing that work?"

"It suited me." I shrug as I say it, but the words are past-tense. An old core of hurt and rage has reignited in my chest since that first terrifying night in the back of a cold windowless van. I can't go back.

She watches me carefully as I pick my way around the detritus, human and otherwise. She fusses with the coffee maker, but I know she's got an eye on me. "Who are you looking for, darling?"

"I see stuff like this, I check for alcohol poisoning. Habit." I avoid Gemma's eyes. "And I'm looking for Kip."

"Not Tig?"

She's fishing. What a bitch. I know my smile doesn't reach my eyes, but I put a bit of leer in it. "No. I _know_ he's just fine."

Gemma is caught completely off guard. She laughs like she means it, and shakes her head. "Kip went off with a couple of crow eaters late last night. Boy needed to blow off some stress."

Crow eater. Well, that's colourful. "I understand."

"I bet you do. There are mugs in the cupboard to your left."

I get two mugs down from the shelf, wincing as muscles and abused skin protests. In a twisty way, it feels good to hurt. As we wait for the coffee to brew, Gemma slings questions at me.

"Got kids?"

"Nope."

"Want any?"

"Nope."

She's utterly unfazed by the staccato nature of our exchange. I feel like I'm being interrogated by a new boyfriend's mother. She cocks her head to one side. "Not real chatty, are you."

I shrug. I like that she's not treating me like I'm fragile, so I offer her some truth. "Half of me is still back there. It's hard to feel in the moment right now."

Her deep brown eyes assess mine, and she nods. "Yeah, I get that. I lost a man and a kid some years back. It changes you."

"No one died. But it was so close..."

"Yeah?"

I shake my head. Where there should be pain is just a blank white wall of nothing. There are no words. It's as if my voice has momentarily left me.

Gemma doesn't bat an elegantly mascaraed eyelash. "Did Kip ever tell you why we call him 'Half-Sack'?"

She tells the story, as well as some other details about poor Kip's time with the Sons. I think she's doing this to humanize the bikers and give me a way to see beyond the black leather, guns, and bikes. I want to see Kip as something other than a bleeding wreck of pain and rage, so I listen. I want to imagine him whole and undamaged by my hands.

It's hard to laugh, like it's hard to cry, but I make myself go through the motions of laughing at Gemma's story. It'll get easier with time. But now? Just another mask, just another lie.

I hear motion behind me and adrenaline hits me like a slap in the face. Am I always going to feel this way? I swallow it back and remain still. From the knowing and amused look on Gemma's face, it's either Kip or Tig. A moment later, the weight of footsteps behind me tells me it's the very same man I dragged to bed with me the night before. The fear drains out of me as quickly as it came. I don't know if I'd call it trust, but this is a man who isn't going to hurt me.

He hesitates before coming into the kitchen. I guess he's afraid of me, in a way. Sex can change things between people. Especially ones volatile from recent trauma. In a flash of insight, I realize that he's probably as skittish about the idea of commitment as I am.

Well, he's got nothing to fear. I'm not trying to trap him or anyone else. The sex was a way of reclaiming my body from Connor, and I don't regret it. He walks past us to the coffee, and I feel his eyes on me.

I am not ashamed, so I look at him. But I am not asking anything of him, so I look away again. I've got so many things to feel bad about right now that any shame I might otherwise feel for screwing a biker just isn't registering. His closeness makes my skin prickle. It's disconcerting to feel attraction when I feel virtually nothing else.

He leaves the room, which is both a relief and a disappointment. I don't like how much I want to be near him. There's a premonition of pain there. Being here hurts. I don't want leaving to hurt, too.

He's a biker, not a gentleman. He slipped away while I was sleeping, which tells me we're on the same page. Allies, maybe friends, but he's not getting any ideas about me being his girl. A twinge of wounded pride there—who doesn't want to be worth hanging onto? But what would I do with him if he did? This is for the best. I like sex a whole lot more than I like relationships, and judging from the debauched scene in the clubhouse this morning, I'm not alone.

When unfamiliar male voices begin to stir in the room behind me, it evokes a terrible wariness. I focus on Gemma's voice and fight back a wave of panic at the idea that I'm isolated and surrounded by strangers. I break away as soon as I can, picking through the mess back to the apartment. With a locked door between me and the bikers, I feel safer, but caged. There really isn't very much stopping me from just walking away, but what then? Jumping at every sound, waiting for another swastika-tattooed hand to grab me? Clay has my wallet, and my passport is back in Calgary. It's all shit. I have no options.

By early afternoon, I'm so bored and jittery that the idea of walking away is starting to seem like a good idea. I don't want company, but in the empty aloneness of this unfamiliar space, dark thoughts overwhelm me. It seems like everything I want these days contradicts something else; there is no safe middle ground. I think about Connor's instructions to hurt Kip, and how I followed them, trying to pick a path that caused the least damage. Remember Kip's scream, the knife in my hand, and Connor's breath hot against my skin as he leans over both of us…

The chain around my neck is long gone, but I feel the cold weight of every steel link against the bruises.

It's hard to breathe, and I swallow back nausea. This is a text-book panic attack, though knowing it doesn't make it any easier to bear. Lying on the bed in sheets that still smell faintly of Tig's leather is a faint comfort. I curl in on myself and count individual breaths until the world withdraws to a tolerable distance.

I'm not ready for it when the door slams open. My heart shudders and I bolt upright in bed as a large, bearded biker steps into the room. Wordless, the look in his eyes is some mix of rage and pain that resonates. He stalks towards me. There's nowhere for me to go, and I can't look away from him. Am I about to get raped again? Did I wander into the middle of some deep rivalry here? Breathe, just breathe.

There are tears in this man's eyes. It's unexpected, but it gives me strength.

Tig comes into the room at a near-run, halting in the doorway. Clay is right behind him. "Easy, brother. She didn't pick her family."

So that's it. It's about June. It's _always_ about June. My anger is quick and hot, but another source of strength. The biker looming over me lifts his hand and lightly touches my bruised throat.

"Donna got killed because she was my wife. This girl went through hell because she was Stahl's sister. How is that fair?" He says in a voice that's barely above a growl. "You know what your sister did to us, little girl?"

"No." It might not be the answer he's looking for, but it's all I've got.

"Does she know where you've been?"

If June knew I was in trouble with gangs, she'd see it as a personal slight. She wouldn't come out of kinship, but she would come for pride. "Doubt it."

"What were you doing in Lodi?"

The implication is that it's somehow my fault I fell in with Connor's gang. This has, somehow, become an interrogation. I look away from the man whose hand still lightly touches my throat and regard Clay, alpha wolf of this pack.

Impressively, my voice is steady. "I was thrown in a van on my way home from work. They drove all day, all night. I didn't even know I was in California at first."

The biker's large, calloused hand encircles my throat. It's oddly gentle, only the slightest pressure to tell me how easily he could hurt me if he chose. I see a battle going on in his pained brown eyes. Tig's hand touches his shoulder. I do not look at Tig. My eyes remain on the stranger, daring him to tighten his grasp.

"Tell me the truth." The biker says.

I tell the bare bones of how Johnny Levenson gave me over for the _honour_ of being a neo-Nazi. How stupid was I to think I was immune from the gang bullshit I was meddling with? And now here I am, with yet another gang Juney stirred up like a kid poking at a hornet's nest.

How would June handle this man? I raise my hands and encircle his broad wrist. He's not expecting me to react like this, and his eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty. I push forward and stand, using my grip on his wrist to keep the pressure away from my throat. It would be trivial for him to resist, but he lets me stand. The moment his fingers go slack, I firmly push his hand away from my neck.

For a moment, I feel like June. Then I'm just me again, and I'm so tired I could cry. It's hard to even stand. "If you've got shit with June, take it up with her. I haven't even spoken to her in five years."

Clay withdraws, taking his men with him. Only Tig remains. The last time we were alone in this room together, I was falling asleep naked beside him. Now he's looking at me like I'm something poisonous or corrupt. It's a fresh and unexpected hurt.

We argue sharply and briefly. I don't understand what June did here, but unraveled whatever acceptance and safety I had among these men. How many people in this gang did Juney piss off? How many of them want to hurt me because they can't reach her? Judging from the cutting ice in Tig's blue eyes, there's something personal there for him as well. When he compares me to June, it cuts so deeply that I have to turn away from him. I won't let him see me hurt.

He reaches for me, and I'm expecting him to be angry or rough, but he isn't. His warm hands gently touch my arms, and then rest firmly on my shoulders. I'm frozen between the desire to turn to him for comfort and the instinct to pull away. The strength of his hands on me is a vivid reminder of the night before.

It kills me how much Tig affects me. I'm trying so damn hard to withdraw and heal myself that it's infuriating how much his touch affects me. When he's near, it's like an electrical current between us, and all I want to do is close the distance between us. I'm trying to conquer my fear, but when Tig's around, it just slips away.

But I need to be strong, and to me, that means independent. Tig releases me and leaves. When the door clicks shut behind him, I am alone. The weight of the ghostly chain around my neck is suddenly too much to bear. My legs give out, and without anyone to see my weakness, I let myself cry.


	16. Chapter 16

_***_

_I'm pleased for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, because I'm actually getting an update out on a Friday for once. Secondly, it's a fairly long update, and contains what I hope will be some pleasing not-too-graphic smut. And finally, I'm heading into another weekend of inadvisable shenanigans. The following chapter is partially written already, so hopefully it won't be another two-week gap in updates._

_Let me know what you think of the story so far!_

_Music. This week, I give you Under the Lighthouse by Big Wreck. It's a love song for the dysfunctional, which works for Tig and Anne, neither of whom are prepared to give so much as an inch of their dinged up little hearts away. _

_"No you woulda left me anyway  
Well I'll just bow my head  
I swear you might've left me anyway  
So I'll leave you instead."_

_I also strongly suggest anything by the Armchair Cynics (another Canadian band) but especially the song Believe. _

_-B._

***

Life returned to normal. Or at least, a version of normal. It seemed like Anne had been a patch of duct-tape on a leaking ship—an imperfect solution, but something that bought time for Half-Sack. Without her, he was sullen and shifty. He refused to set foot in the ring, but started picking fights in bars and showing up for work with bloodied knuckles and black eyes. He'd mastered Anne's trick of fading back behind a blank mask as if the world was irrelevant. He didn't defy authority as much as evade it entirely.

Meanwhile, Tig was angry. He resented that they couldn't inflict a greater vengeance on the Nordics. He hated the process of removing the partial swastika from his back. And he loathed that he missed Anne. Without her distracting presence, he was bored, irritable, and haunted by the guilt of killing Donna.

Gemma's eyes, concerned and assessing, cut at him. She kept her distance, but when he glanced up to see her watching him from across the room, it was obvious that she knew things had changed. That made him angry, too.

There was some comfort to be found in the women who rose the challenge of salving his ill temper, but always short lived. He grew weary of halfway tricking himself that it was Anne's body against his, then realizing that it was just some crow eater whose name he couldn't recall. One night, he dreamed about Donna flying at him in a rage; Tig woke with his hand starting to close around the throat of some unsuspecting crow eater asleep at his side. Swallowing back self-loathing, Tig tossed the poor girl out of his bed. She wasn't the last girl he fucked, but she was the last one he let himself fall asleep next to.

Gradually, Anne and the infuriating Lodi events slipped from his thoughts. Until a day in September when Juice approached him at the bar.

"Hey."

Tig regarded Juice levelly over the rim of his pint. "Hope you're not looking for a bonding moment. I'm not in the mood."

"Nah. Look, I dunno if you even care. But I found this for Sack, and I printed a copy for you." With that, Juice placed an envelope in front of Tig.

After Juice retreated, Tig picked up the envelope. He held it in his hand, wondering at the feeling that this was something he didn't want to open. With an angry sigh, he ripped it open and unfolded the contents.

It was, unexpectedly, a copy of an article from a Calgary magazine. The editorial—dated for the summer of 2008—was about a youth rehab program in Calgary that Anne had co-founded. The story painted Anne and her colleagues as saintly but stubborn social workers who had elevated the non-profit organization from its roots as a drop-in centre in the city core.

Tig felt fascinated and sick reading it. It was clear that Anne was a woman with steel in her soul long before the Nords came along, but there had also been an openness and joy to her that he had never seen. In the photo accompanying the article, there was Anne, her long hair partially dyed blue of all things, and a proud smile on her face. He wasn't sure he liked the punk look, but seeing her in that picture, at the centre of a group of teenagers and social workers, woke an ache in him he couldn't put a name to. She was strong, happy, and surrounded by people to whom she mattered.

It was hard to reconcile the woman in the picture with the one who'd briefly walked among the Sons so recently. He recalled her saying that she couldn't go back to being a counsellor. Was this something else the Nords had cost her? His fingertips touched her face for a moment, then he closed his eyes.

Tig pulled the zippo from his pocket, lit it with a sharp crack, and held the flame to the corner of the paper. It caught and burned with soft orange glow. He watched the fire eat up to the edge of Anne's picture and then tipped the page into an empty pint glass. When it had burned away, he calmly pocketed the lighter. She was gone. End of story.

And then, after six months of the new normal, Clay's cell phone rang. It was a short conversation, and when Clay hung up, he rubbed his hand over his eyes and sat wearily at one of the stools in the garage. Tig raised an eyebrow and sauntered over to find out what was bothering Clay. When he saw the look on president's face, he sent the non-Son mechanics on a coffee break.

"That was Unser." Clay said as Juice and Opie approached.

"Bad news?" Tig said.

Clay shrugged. "Not for us. Agent Stahl was in Oakland. She got jumped and beaten—occupational hazard. They figure she's not going to make it."

Opie shuddered. He closed his eyes and nodded. Tig saw Opie's pain unmasked and looked away. Maybe Stahl's death would give some kind of resolution to the mess she'd left behind. Then he thought about Anne. Was she safe? Would she come to see her sister?

"This is a good time to lay low, boys. ATF is going to be prowling, and we're near the top of a very long list of people who'd be happy to put that bitch in the grave." Clay said. "Spread the word."

There were phone calls to make. To other chapters, to allies, to friends. Tig had one additional phone call to make, and it wasn't one he was ready to tell Clay about.

***

Two days later, Tig's cell rang. He looked at the number, and stepped away from the garage to answer it.

"Hey, I think I've got something for you." It was a woman's voice, hushed slightly as if to prevent anyone from overhearing her.

"Yeah?"

"Your favourite coma case had a visitor today. Family."

"Got her name?"

"Annika Harris." There was a sound of clattering computer keys on the other end of the line. "She's staying at the Holiday Inn on Oak Street."

"That's my girl. Room number?"

"310." There was a pause. "Cops showed up to talk her. She yelled at them, but she was crying when she left."

"Did you hear what they were talking about?"

"Not much. She called them vultures and told them to fuck off." The clerk laughed softly. "It was kind of awesome."

Tig smiled to himself. "Thanks babe."

"Any time."

That evening, Tig rode to Oakland, irritable and eager at the same time. He didn't like how confused Anne left him, but he wanted to see her again. He also felt deep pleasure at the idea of Agent Stahl kicking the bucket, which he suspected Anne wouldn't share with him.

He arrived at the Holiday Inn after dark. The man behind the desk barely glanced up as he walked past the desk and straight to the elevators. He liked that it was easy to walk in, but it wasn't a safe place for Anne to be hanging out, especially in Niner territory. On the third floor, he rapped firmly on the door marked 310.

There was no response. He knocked more forcefully, and then called out. "Anne, c'mon, it's Tig. Open up."

After a long moment, Anne opened the door. Six months had changed her, and at a glance, Tig wasn't sure it was all good change. She was tanned and looked strong, but her wary eyes had a terrible stillness to them. Her hair was longer, pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail that trailed over one shoulder. She wore a tank top and a skirt that brushed her ankles. Barefoot and blank-faced, it was a painful reminder of the Lodi warehouse. Except this time, there was a gun in her hand, partly hidden behind her leg. It was unfair how beautiful and dangerous she looked.

After an off-balance moment, abruptly confronted by the rush of memory and the lack of welcome on her face, he realized how annoying it was to deal with a woman who handled shit the same way he did—silence and violence. At that thought, he wondered if she'd done anything unpleasant since he saw her last.

"You even know how to shoot that?" Tig asked, raising an eyebrow at the gun.

"Planning to give me a reason to prove it?" She replied. Her stoic mask slipped a little and her lips twitched in a brief smile. "Didn't take you long to find me. Bribed a hospital clerk?"

"Something like that." Tig wasn't used to clever women.

"I'm flattered." She said dryly, and then her eyes went hard again. "Or is this club business?"

"Chill. I just wanted to see if you were okay." Tig raised his hands defensively. "Are you?"

She looked away, nodded more to herself than him, and stepped back into the room. Tig took that as an invitation and followed, closing the door behind them. In her wake, he caught the citrus scent of gin. The open bottle stood on the nightstand, next to a can of tonic.

Anne went straight to the bed, which under other circumstances might have been an invitation. However, her posture wasn't welcoming. She leaned against the headboard, one leg tucked under her and the other drawn up to her chest, and set the pistol on the sheets next to her. She was avoiding his eyes. Again, it was painfully reminiscent of the warehouse.

Tig rubbed his temple. He leaned over her and scooped the pistol up in one hand. Anne didn't protest, but he heard her inhale—an enticingly vulnerable sound—as his arm brushed against hers.

He paused and looked down at her, realizing that her façade of cool indifference was barely holding up. It made him feel better. Without even making the decision to do so, his hand reached out to stroke her soft brown hair. It was the first time he'd touched her in almost half a year. He let his hand linger there for a moment. On some level, Anne was still his.

Tig sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the gun over in his hands. The serial numbers had been filed off. He nodded approvingly and set it on the nightstand next to the gin.

Anne had closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she let him see the pain and fear she felt. She must have been waiting for someone to come, not knowing if it would be Nords or Sons. She'd probably been sitting in that exact spot, gin in one hand and a gun in the other, wondering if anyone would break down the door and do to her what had been done to her sister.

"They don't know who did it." Anne said after a moment. "Do you think it was…"

Tig shook his head. "Don't know for sure, yet. Lots of people hated her."

Anne nodded. When she spoke again, her voice was small. "Is Kip okay?"

Half-Sack hadn't been okay since Lodi. Tig wrestled with what to tell her. She looked like she was carrying enough pain already. He wasn't good at judging these things. "He had a hard time when you left."

Without a word, Anne shifted and closed the distance between them. She touched her forehead to his shoulder and put her hand on his. He understood what it cost her to show weakness. He felt a dizzying mix of protectiveness, frustration, and affection for her.

Tig put an arm around her and felt her bonelessly relax against him. She was trembling, and he figured it had more to do with exhaustion than anything else. Tig removed his boots and cut, then lay back on the mountain of starchy hotel pillows with one arm behind his head and the other around Anne. She laid her head on his chest and sighed as he ran his hand down her back. Tig breathed her scent. She felt right against him. Sweeter and stronger than any crow eater. Fierce towards everyone except him.

He noticed the edge of a tattoo showing under the neckline of her shirt. Hadn't she gotten rid of the swastika by now? He pulled her hair aside and touched the back of her neck. She bowed her head and allowed him to pull down the neckline enough to bare the tattoo.

It wasn't a swastika anymore. He could recognize some of the lines of it, buried in the larger design of a stylized black bird with vaguely tribal lines. He traced them with his fingers, liking the soft warmth of her skin under the dark lines of the tattoo. He swallowed. Most of the old ladies of the chapter were marked with crows. Was that something Anne knew?

"A crow?" He asked.

Anne lifted her head and shook her hair back to hide the tattoo and look him in the eyes. "No. A raven."

Tig nodded. He looked at the clock, then down at the exhausted woman in his arms. It was past eleven in the evening. "You need to sleep."

Her eyes looked unnaturally green, shadowed with red from crying and sleeplessness. Her hand was on his chest, and he was having a hard time not thinking about other things those lovely hands had done in the past. "I don't sleep much these days."

"Sleep." Tig commanded.

She gave him the ghost of a smile and laid her head on his shoulder. It was almost funny how fast she fell asleep there, her body going from relaxed to limp and her breathing steadying out to a deep and even rhythm.

When he was sure she was under deeply, Tig carefully disengaged from her, gently lifting her arm from his chest and then laying her head on the pillows. As he shifted, his hand landed on something that had been lost in the sheets next to her. He picked up the leather bracer and looked down at the woman sleeping next to him. Her hair was splayed across the pillows and the skirt tangled around her knees, leaving her long, sleek calves bare. In sleep, her face looked innocent.

He sighed. It wasn't good to feel so involved with a woman. He slid the bracer over her wrist. She didn't stir.

Tig went to the window and looked out at the parking lot. It was quiet. He pulled out his cell phone and called Clay, pitching his voice low.

"Hey. Stahl's little sister turned up."

"Aw, shit. That isn't our problem."

"Clay…"

"You're with her, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "Goddamn it, Tig."

"Tell me we don't owe her this. Tell me I don't owe her this. The way Half-Sack is, it's not her fault, Clay."

He heard the president sigh heavily over the phone. "Fine. You gonna bring her in?"

"It ain't safe here. We'll go in the morning."

"Fine." Clay repeated. The line went dead.

Tig stepped out on the balcony of the hotel room, leaving the sliding door open to keep Anne in sight, and lit up a cigarette. The cold air felt good on his face, and with the curtains open, the neon hotel sign cast light across Anne's sleeping figure. He smoked and watched her, allowing himself to feel protective. Losing Agent Stahl was no problem to Tig, but whoever did it wouldn't get their hands on Anne. She'd been through enough. She and Half-Sack were still walking wounded from what happened in Lodi.

In her sleep, Anne shivered and curled in on herself. Icy and brave on the surface, but underneath that, she was carrying around a world of hurt. She protected herself by staying aloof—Tig understood that. He also knew how lonely it was to choose control over comfort. As he watched, Anne shuddered in her sleep and drew one arm up to hide her face. Tig sighed. He wanted to go wake her from the bad dreams. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted to taste every inch of her tanned and tattooed body. But he stayed in the doorway, watching her sleep.

He lit another cigarette and thought hard about Anne, the club, and his dead old lady from years back. Then he thought about Opie's dead old lady, and the blankness on Donna's face after he'd blown half her brains across the dashboard of Opie's truck.

Anne shivered and came awake. Her head lifted and she scanned the room warily before her eyes found him. There was something faintly feral about the wariness and intensity of her gaze, as if part of her was still acting on the terms of her nightmare. Tig liked seeing the animal under her veneer of control. After a moment of silence, Anne rose and crossed the room on silent bare feet. She stood before him, mirroring his stillness and cool stare.

Breaking the disorienting moment, Anne placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. The bracer slid most of the way down her slender forearm as her fingers caressed his neck. He tried to find the strength to push her away, but when his hands came up, it was to hold her more firmly against him. Tig looked out at the sky, praying that he wouldn't end up hurting her.

"I told you to sleep." Tig said. He let a bit of growl show in his tone. "It's barely been an hour."

He felt Anne's breath against his throat. "I don't always do what I'm told."

Her body was warm and enticing against his. She shivered and arched her back delightfully when he slid his cool hand under her shirt and stroked her bare skin. It was too much to resist when she made a tiny noise of distress at his cold touch. Tig lifted her chin and kissed her roughly. He didn't try to hold himself back. Anne responded in kind, her kiss both fierce and urgent. When Tig tried to pull away for breath, her teeth were sharp on his lower lip in protest.

And that was it for Tig's self-control. He tossed his cigarette aside and pulled her onto the balcony with him. When he pushed her up against the railing, she went willingly, her hands pulling at his clothes and her mouth hot on his skin. Firmly capturing her wrists, he spun her around and pulled her skirt up to her waist. Anne clung to the railing and moaned as his hands found her breasts. Tig took her there on the balcony overlooking the empty parking lot. And she wanted it that way.

No crow eater fucked like this. No whore felt as tight and hot as Anne's body writhing under him. At first she tried to muffle her own gasps and cries with her own forearm, braced on the railing, but when Tig slipped his hand under her skirt and touched the core of her, she wasn't able to stay quiet. Lost in her, lost in the sound of her voice and her desperate need for him, Tig felt alive. When she came, crying out his name into the chill night air, he wrapped his arm around her waist and climaxed harder than he had in months.

Tig's legs felt weak, but it was Anne who leaned against him as if she didn't have the strength to hold herself up. Grinning, Tig swept her up into his arms. She barely seemed to notice, though she smiled when he kissed her forehead and laid her back down on the bed. Catlike, she stretched and curled on her side.

Tig shed his shirt and pants and lay down next to her. Caution thrown away, he possessively put his arm around her and drew her up against him. Her lips found his and for a moment, Tig could trick himself into believing that she was his. Anne sleepily nestled against him.

"I think I can sleep now." Her voice was soft but held a warmth that hadn't been there before. Tig smiled and smoothed her tousled hair with one hand. "You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Yeah." He said. "I'll take you back to the clubhouse in the morning. This is One-Niner territory—ain't safe to leave you here alone."

Anne was quiet. Then she asked, "Do I have a choice?"

Tig sighed. He wanted to say no. "Yes."

"And by 'yes,' you really mean no, but you don't want me to argue about it?' Anne said. Tig winced. Nothing was worse than a clever woman. Nothing.

"…Yes."

Anne thought about it for a moment. "Fine. As long as your friends know I'm not… friendly."

"You seem pretty friendly to me…" he said. It was understandable that she wanted some distinction from the crow-eaters, but funny that she felt it was necessary.

Anne's teeth closed warningly on his earlobe. It was amusing how much more relaxed and playful she was after sex.

"Hey!"

"I mean it. This… this is what it is. But on my end, it's only with you."

Tig smiled in the dark. "You're safe with the Sons. Always."

When he finally fell asleep, it was with Anne next to him. She slept loosely entangled in his arms, her delicate hand resting lightly on his chest. He dreamed of nothing at all, and it was good.


	17. Chapter 17

***

_Losing family sucks, even if it's family you really don't like. Trust me on that. This chapter is mostly about conflict, but not as much as the next one is going to be. Yeah, not all of the Sons are going to be happy about having Annie show up again. Oh well, fun to write, right? _

_Anne's hurting but too proud to admit how desperately grateful she is that Tig showed up when he did. Would you trust your feelings towards someone if they started in such a scary and dangerous place, or would you figure it was just a temporary instinct based on survival? _

_Found a lovely little ballad called Set Fire to the Third Bar by Snow Patrol. It's a good song for Anne's mental state at this stage.  
_

_"After I have travelled so far  
We'd set the fire to the third bar  
We'd share each other like an island  
Until exhausted, close our eyelids  
And dreaming, pick up from the last place we left off."_

_-B._

***

While Anne showered, Tig took the opportunity to look through her belongings. Just because he liked her didn't mean he trusted her. If she was packing more weapons, he needed to know about that.

Her suitcase contained disappointingly boring underwear and a sad lack of lingerie, but given the circumstances, that was understandable. It also contained a knife wrapped in a sweatshirt and pushed to the bottom of the case. A weapon wasn't very useful in the bottom of a suitcase, but that was her choice. The pistol was a better weapon anyway. He rewrapped it and put it back among her clothes.

In her purse, he found a cell phone. The display read 15 missed calls and 7 new voice messages. Anne was ignoring someone. Or several someones. He found her wallet—no longer containing a school staff badge—and her passport, along with American and Canadian cash.

He also found two bottles of pills rattling around underneath a pocket novel, three pens, and an ipod. The first bottle was Advil, and it was nearly empty. The second was Ativan, a tranquilizer, and was nearly full. The prescription date was from a month ago. It was interesting that she carried them, but barely used them. Tig considered pocketing a few, but the powdery pills wouldn't hold up well, so he tucked the bottle back in her purse.

A laptop computer case leaned against the bedside table, but the sound of the shower shutting off told him that there just wasn't time to fumble with the damn thing, despite his curiousity.

He was so used to seeing Anne in Gemma or Tara's clothing that it was a bit jarring to see her emerge from the washroom wearing a high-necked shirt and another long skirt. She wore the lightest touches of make-up and wore her long hair twisted away off her face. A delicate pair of glasses on her faintly freckled nose completed the picture of a librarian. She looked obnoxiously _wholesome_. He put his hands in his pockets; they itched to unbind her hair and mess up the demure outfit.

"You always dress like a nun?" Tig asked.

"Only for you, baby." Anne replied with mild sarcasm. She softened it with a wry smile. "People judge on appearances. If the cops come back today, better for me if they see a nun."

When Tig wanted to hide what he was, he took off his cut and unstrapped the knife from his leg. If it was _really_ important, like killing someone, he put a mask over his face. He understood subtlety, but rarely felt the need to practice it. However, he could understand Anne's logic. Gemma took charge of situations, and that was her strength. Anne was, for lack of a better term, sneaky. And in this case, that was a good thing. Her life depended on the cops not getting involved with the mess in Lodi; that meant not setting off any bells for them.

Tig nodded. Maybe it wasn't so bad that she was clever. "You look so… innocent."

"Innocent." She echoed. The wry smile remained, but it didn't reach her eyes.

To him, she was innocent. She sure as hell wasn't a virgin, and he knew she could kill, so it wasn't that kind of purity. But the vulnerability, the pain, and the way she pushed fear back behind her green eyes—that was innocent. She'd done dark things, but she felt every inch of them.

Tig picked up her suitcase and headed out the door. Anne followed with her purse and laptop. He waited while she checked out of the hotel and then led the way to her rental car. It was a silver Chevy Malibu. At least it was American. For now, his bike would stay at the hotel, so as not to attract attention at the hospital. An MC bike outside the hospital an ATF agent was dying in? Bad PR. Likewise, his cut and knife would stay in the car.

When he asked for the keys, she mutely handed them over. He had expected a fight there, but as he turned the ignition, he reflected that it wasn't how Anne worked. She picked her battles. How she managed it without seeming like a push-over was a mystery to him.

She was barely present in the car on the way to the hospital. He couldn't imagine how she felt about going back to her sister's deathbed, but she needed to fill out DNR forms and pick up insurance documentation. Anne sat quietly by his side, gazing out the window, her hands folded demurely in her lap. It felt like he was driving alone; Anne had an uncanny way of dimming herself down to nothing, despite being a living and breathing thing mere inches away.

At the hospital, Tig didn't want to see Agent Stahl. He let Anne go into her room alone while he went to settle up with the obliging unit clerk who'd notified him about Anne's presence. Afterword, at loose ends, he found a chair in the hallway and settled in to wait. He hated hospitals. They brought up bad memories.

Several minutes later, the voice that rang out down the hallway was both familiar and unwelcome.

"Trager? What the _hell _are you doing here?"

Deputy David Hale. Of course. He'd been fucking Agent Stahl in Charming. It made sense he'd come see the bitch before she kicked the bucket. So much for low profile. Tig felt a headache starting. He stood, holding his hands up and trying to show Hale that he didn't mean any harm.

"Aw, deputy, it's not…"

Hale shoved Tig aside with angry strength and yanked open the door to Stahl's room. His face was twisted in a scowl of worry and anger. Tig came into the room immediately behind Hale, and his hands closed in fists to see Anne flat against the wall, her eyes wild in the face of the deputy's rage. Hale's gun wasn't aimed at her, but it was trained on the floor in her direction.

Hale had put himself between Anne and Agent Stahl. His expression changed to one of wary recognition. "You. I've seen you before. You were hanging around the Sons back in the spring."

Anne was breathing a little too fast and her hands were tense at her sides. Tig warned. "Hale, _don't_."

"Don't what? Ask what the hell you're doing here? Oh god, is this the work of the Sons?" Hale's flushed face went pale. The gun came up a few degrees, wavering between Anne and Tig.

"Whoa, Hale. _No._ We didn't do this. I'm not here for Stahl. I'm here for _her._" Tig said, keeping his hands raised. He nodded at Anne, who seemed frozen. "She's Stahl's little sister, you idiot."

Anne flinched as Hale's angry stare swung back to her. Tig considered his options. Anne seemed more fragile now than she had the week after they got out of Lodi. He wasn't sure she had the fire to stand up to Hale's righteous hostility. He wasn't thrilled about having a jumpy cop between him and Anne, though he was pretty sure Hale wasn't trigger-happy enough to do anything stupid. This was a moment where having Bobby or Jax around would have been handy; calming situations down just wasn't Tig's strength.

Fortunately, it was Anne's. Despite her obvious anxiety, he could see her judging the situation and assessing Hale. She didn't take her eyes off the deputy as she carefully edged towards the door. Hale kept his gun trained in her direction, but watched mutely as she moved to stand next to Tig.

"The Sons had nothing to do with this." Tig repeated. "But until we figure out who did, Anne's got our protection. From _anyone_."

"June's sister is throwing her lot in with SAMCRO?" Hale asked, incredulous, though he lowered the gun.

Anne took a small step towards Hale. Her posture had shifted from fearful to a calm and blank-eyed looseness. When she spoke, it was softly and without inflection. "Are you judging me for that?"

Tig looked down at her, suddenly worried she'd confront Hale more directly. She didn't seem angry, but he didn't trust the perfect blankness of her face as she regarded Hale. She'd looked like that while standing over Connor's body.

"Do you know who these men are?" Hale asked, incredulous and baffled.

"You're standing over the body of my sister and asking me who I know?" Anne's voice remained softly sweet.

Hale shook his head in confusion and recoiled. The gun lowered. "There's more going on here than you're telling me. If you're in trouble, I can protect you…"

"June and I weren't close." Anne said firmly, but just as quietly, cutting off Hale. "I'm going to sign the papers to terminate her care tomorrow. She won't last an hour off life-support. Her organs will be donated."

She stared at the deputy for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then a false and dismissive smile crossed her lips. "I don't need your help. Please. Just say goodbye to June. When I come back to submit the forms I don't want to see you here."

With that, she rested her hand briefly on Tig's arm and looked directly at Hale to make sure he saw the gesture. Then she stepped into the hallway. Tig cast a last glance at the ghost-white face of Agent Stahl, and followed Anne.

Out of Hale's sight, Anne stoicism cracked. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself defensively, the medical forms pressed to her chest. She exhaled slowly and glanced back in the direction of Stahl's room. "Who was that?"

"Deputy Chief of Police for Charming." Tig answered.

Anne's eyes were full of worry. Her voice was just above a whisper. "If the police find out I was in Lodi…"

"Yeah." Tig said, acknowledging her concern but hushing her with a shake of his head. Anne was theoretically safe from the Nordics so long as she kept her mouth shut about what had been done to her by Matthew Connor's splinter group. He stroked her hair once, and then got her out of the hospital and back to the car. No point in hanging around waiting for Hale to think of anything else to ask.

She was silent until the parking lot. Anne spoke hesitantly, placing her hand on his sleeve. "This would have been much harder to do alone."

Tig smiled a little. She hadn't said _too hard_, just harder. Stubborn little girl.

"I think you freaked out Hale, kid."

Anne shrugged. "My sister was sleeping with him?"

"Yeah."

She made a noise of disgust. "June prefers women."

"Wait, what?"

"Only thing she liked more was power. That guy must matter in Charming."

Tig stared at Anne. "Back that up a bit…"

"_Les_bian. Surely you're familiar with the concept?" Anne said innocently.

Tig shot her an unkind look as they climbed into the car, with Tig again at the wheel. He rolled the concept around in his head. It kind of made sense.

"And what do you _prefer?_" He asked, once the idea of dyke-Stahl settled. He didn't even try to hide the leer.

Anne turned in her seat and leaned over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "I prefer _you,_ jackass."

And just like that, she'd disarmed him and left him without anything to say. Sneaky, clever woman. Then he thought of one more thing.

"So if you _prefer_ men, does that mean women are still an option? 'Cause y'know, that's all kinds of hot…"

Anne punched him in the arm. Girls who play-fought were the best kind of girls. Tig grinned. She was trying not to smile, but Tig could see it behind the disapproving expression on her face. She folded her arms and stared out the window while he started the car.

After a few minutes, she said. "I know she's awful, but I'm sad she's dying."

Tig was not at all sad Stahl was dying. "Family is a hard thing."

Anne fell silent, but he felt her presence in the car.

"Why did you change your name?" Tig asked.

"I wanted to be someone new," she said. "And seriously, April and June? You name cats like that, not kids."

Tig decided not to tell her about Fawn and Dawn. Ever.

At the hotel, Tig gave Anne the keys to the Chevy and climbed on his bike. She followed him out of Oakland and onto the highway to Charming. There was a risk of her presence bringing more heat down on the club, but that damage was already done. He knew she wouldn't get a universally warm welcome from the boys, but well, it was only for a day or two. The club was important, but so was keeping Anne safe.


	18. Chapter 18

_***_

_Because I'm unforgivably cheesy, there was a theme song for each main character while I was writing this chapter and the next. Three very different flavours of rock for three very different characters, each of whom is keeping the other two off balance in one way or another._

_(For some reason, this is previewing as 4,038 words. MS Word assures me that it's 3,735. What the hell, FF?)  
_

_-B._

_Wallflowers - God Says Nothing Back (Anne)_

_Back over the rotted bridge I cross  
Open up these graves, let these bodies talk  
I'm buried under leaves, blood red and gold  
Death says nothing back  
But I told you so_

_Dispatch - Questioned Apocalypse (Tig)_

_my brother looks up at the sky and says, why have you poisoned my brother's cup  
and I say don't you worry boy  
cause the woman who came for me  
will surely show you your bliss  
for she holds the answers to all your fears _

_she questions the apocalypse_

_Mumford and Sons - Little Lion Man (Half-Sack)_

_weep little lion man,  
you're not as brave as you were at the start  
rate yourself and rape yourself,  
take all the courage you have left  
wasted on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head_

***

It was a cool California afternoon when Tig pulled into the Teller-Morrow courtyard followed by Anne's rental car. Sun shone brightly, but slate grey clouds seethed in the distance, threatening rain. Tig killed the engine and backed his Dyna into line with the other bikes while Anne parked near Gemma's car.

Clay sauntered up as Tig unbuckled his helmet. The president welcomed him back with a shoulder slap, but his grey eyes were serious. "You sure 'bout this?"

Tig nodded. "She's not safe on her own. It's just for a couple days."

"And then what?"

"She'll put Stahl in the ground and go back home." Tig said. After a moment, he added. "She ain't a crow eater, Clay."

"Never thought that for a second, brother." Clay looked over at Anne, who had stepped into the sunlight on the far side of row of cars. She met the president's gaze for a moment, then looked away.

It wasn't a warm welcome for Anne, but then, Tig hadn't expected one.

Gemma walked up to the Malibu, a reserved smile on her beautiful face. The two women exchanged some words Tig could not hear, and Gemma briefly embraced Anne. They walked back to the clubhouse, side by side. Gemma looked tolerant, while Anne wore a look of mild disinterest, though her hands were tight on the strap of her bag. Clay snorted in bemusement. Gem usually took a firm hand with the women who came around the club. Unfortunately, of all the things Tig could protect Anne from, the queen was not one of them.

Looking toward the garage, Tig saw Half-Sack and Opie watching Anne. Opie's bearded face was stern and his arms were folded across his chest. Half-Sack stared at her with more intensity than Tig had seen in him for months. It made him nervous. Half-Sack stepped out into the light and Anne's eyes fell on him. She stopped in her tracks. For a long moment, neither moved.

Half-Sack was gaunt, one eye showing a faded bruise and his knuckles were battered from recent brawls. He looked older than he was. This was the new normal. The calm on Anne's face broke, and Tig saw guilt and anguish. For Half-Sack, she did not hide her feelings.

Anne took two steps towards the prospect, then stopped as if there was a wall she could not cross. Her eyes were locked on Half-Sack's. Tig scowled. He didn't understand what was passing between the two, but he didn't like it. He was considering intervening when Clay's hand landed heavily on his shoulder, a warning to stay out of it.

Half-Sack shook his head vehemently and his eyes dropped to the ground. He turned abruptly and retreated to the shop with angry strides.

Gemma's hand touched Anne's arm, and the pain on the younger woman's face immediately smoothed back to detachment. Her posture, however, had diminished. She looked small next to the queen as they entered the clubhouse.

"What was that about?" Clay asked.

Tig shook his head. "Fucked if I know."

He left Anne to settle in with Gemma's help. He felt like he'd missed something important in the exchange between her and Half-Sack, but that was messy emotional shit he just didn't have the temperament to deal with. Short of locking the two in a room together, he had no idea how to fix whatever was broken. And if he did lock them up together, they might decide to kill each other, or fuck each other. Neither was an outcome he was willing to entertain.

At a gesture from Clay, Tig followed the president into the tiny shop office. Clay sat at the desk, leaning back in Gemma's chair with a creak.

"Any news on who took down Stahl?" Tig asked, sitting across from Clay.

"Naw. No one's bragging. You see anyone hanging around in Oakland?"

Tig sighed. "Just our very own Deputy Hale. He wanted to say goodbye to his bitchy fuck buddy."

Clay gave Tig a look of utter annoyance. "Dead ATF agent and not only are you seen near her, you're with the sister who's life depends on never explaining why she was in Lodi last year? Jesus fucking Christ, Tig."

Gemma chose that moment to enter the room. She closed the door behind her and perched on the edge of the desk next to Clay.

"Got Annie all set. She gonna be here long?"

"Don't think so." Tig said.

"Too bad."

Clay regarded his lady with a raised eyebrow. "You can't be serious."

"Baby, just now was the most emotion I've seen on Half-Sack's face since July."

"He looked fucking miserable." Clay said.

"No," Gemma corrected. "He looked _upset._ She looked miserable. And I don't give a shit what she feels as long as it gets Kip back to the human race. Maybe if they settle up, it'll heal whatever's in his head."

Tig pinched the bridge of his nose and avoided looking at Gemma.

"Whatever. But what do we do when Hale shows up?" Clay asked.

Tig didn't want to mention the shouting and the drawn gun, so he temporized. "Anne handled him pretty well. He's a soft touch for pretty girls."

"You trust her to not fuck that up?"

"It's her life on the line. She knows that." Tig said.

"Shit. I do_ not_ like having this kind of attention brought down on us. It's not like you to get so wound up over a piece of ass."

Tig shook his head. He resented it, but Clay was right. However, his confusion about Anne wasn't the only reason they had to help her. "I wouldn't be standing here if she hadn't been a goddamn rock in Lodi. And whatever Half's deal is, neither would he."

Clay and Gemma exchanged glances. The president sighed again. "We don't know if Stahl's attack had anything to do with the sister. The biggest danger for her might be just having the cops know she's with us. If they dig into it and unravel anything about Lodi, she's fucked."

"Better than leaving her alone in a hotel room, waiting for someone to break down her door. She's scared, Clay. She _should_ be scared."

"Look, I feel for her, and I respect that you've got something going there, but she makes me nervous." Clay said.

"Not as nervous as we make her." Gemma interjected.

Clay's eyes narrowed. "Then why is she even here?"

Gemma looked at Tig. Her lips twitched. "Take a guess."

Clay rubbed his face with one hand and gave Tig an assessing look.

"_What_." Tig said.

"Okay, she stays to handle the shit with her sister. If Hale shows up, that's on her—it'd look ten times worse if we kept her away from him. After that, well, my preference is that she fucks off back to the great white north." Clay glanced at Gemma, whose eyebrow was raised. He sighed. "But if you want to keep her, we can have that talk."

Tig glared. "She's a good fuck and she's tough as hell, but she ain't my old lady."

"Not sayin' she is. But if you decide she could be, we'll talk."

Gemma rested her hand on Clay's shoulder. The two of them were strong, united, together. Tig saw, in a vivid flash, himself with Anne at his side. His ally. His alone. He could see it so clearly.

"Whatever." Tig shrugged and reached for the door.

The garage was cold with the bay doors open, but most of the guys preferred fresh air and light over fumes and fluorescents. Tig passed Opie and Juice working on a mangled pick-up and spotted Half-Sack at the back of the garage. The prospect was leaning against the wall, a beer in one hand, glaring out at the world with dark, brooding eyes.

"Hey, no drinking during work, shithead."

Half just shrugged as Tig plucked the bottle from his hand. It was already two-thirds empty, so Tig drank the rest of it and put the empty on the workbench.

"C'mon. You and me. Smoke break."

"Naw, I'm good here."

"Wasn't a question. Move."

Behind the garage, Tig lit a cigarette and handed the pack to Half-Sack, who accepted. They both lit up and regarded each other warily. The prospect shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily.

Tig stood square shouldered. He didn't have the same kind of unquestioned authority over the boy he'd once had, but he was still bigger, older, and the Sergeant at Arms. He knew how to give orders. "Now, you're going to tell me what the fuck is going on with you and Anne."

Half-Sack just stared at the cigarette in his hand, and shrugged awkwardly. He couldn't seem to stand completely still, as if he was struggling with himself somehow. Tig gritted his teeth. His brother was broken, and he had the horrible feeling that he'd made it worse by bringing Anne back. But he didn't understand _why_.

"I thought you'd be happy to see her saintly ass back in Charming, but you're acting like she's a Nord." Tig pressed.

Half kicked at the dust underfoot. "I'm glad she's safe."

"Yeah? Then what was that shit when she tried to talk to you."

"Leave it, Tig." Half-Sack had gone still, and his hands were closing into fists.

"Fuck you." Tig said calmly. "I can keep her away from you if I have to, but I need to know why."

Something dark stirred behind Half-Sack's eyes. He threw the barely-touched cigarette aside and stepped up to Tig, staring him down, daring him to take the next step in aggression. Tig had a hard time keeping his hands at his sides, but brawling with Half-Sack wouldn't help anything.

"She wasn't just there, watching. She tell you that?" Half-Sack said, his voice a furious whisper. "He made her do the cutting, made her do things."

It had been implied, but never outright stated. Tig stayed silent.

Half-Sack's voice took on a plaintive tone. "When she was here, broken like me and scared, it was different. But since she left, every nightmare I have is of her, man. _It's her_."

"I didn't know." Tig said. "You said she helped you."

Half-Sack's blue eyes caught Tig's and held them. He took a step back. "She did that too. That's why it's all fucked up in my head. Connor'd make her do shit, then it'd be her patching me up again. Looking at her now is fucking with my head."

"Jesus." Tig tried to imagine Anne cutting up Half-Sack. He couldn't do it. Then he recalled how coldly she'd put herself in the middle of a Nord fight to get the phone. Was it that much of a stretch for her to hurt someone else if she couldn't see a way around it? Anne calculated what needed to be done, and she committed to it, even if the price was high. It was, Tig thought, what a Son would do.

"I got work to do." Half-Sack shook his head abruptly and walked away. Tig stared after him and wondered how long they'd be paying the price for Lodi.

He needed to look into Anne's eyes and know what had been going on in her head while she hurt Half-Sack. Just because he felt like he knew her didn't mean that he did—and brothers mattered more than bitches, no matter how good the lay.

When he entered Jax's old apartment, he had a bad feeling. Anne wasn't in the living room or kitchen. He found her in the washroom, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, surrounded by the broken remains of the mirror. Anne's right hand was loosely wrapped in a towel, dripping blood.

"For fuck's sake." Tig cursed and crouched next to her, taking her hand and firmly wrapping the towel around the cut. She didn't flinch or speak, though it must have hurt.

"Hey. Look at me." Tig lifted her chin, and her eyes reluctantly focused on his. The bleak self-loathing on Anne's face hit him like a fist.

At the sound of a footstep behind him, Tig turned and saw Gemma in the doorway. Calm and stern, she looked down at the two of them. He was surprised to see that much patience on Gemma's face—if any of the other girls pulled this kind of shit, she'd have them on their feet and sweeping up the glass before the bleeding stopped. However, despite her calm, Gemma didn't look happy.

"Half's been sulking since you left. Now you're back, and you're worse than he is." She said, voice flat. "Y'know, _normal_ girls just cry when they hate themselves. Breaking mirrors is too macho. Too messy. Not to mention melodramatic."

Anne blinked at the blood and then up at Gemma. She sounded very young. "I'm sorry."

Tig pulled back the towel to look at Anne's hand. It was a shallow cut, but the glass had glanced off her knuckle, leaving a gash on the back of her hand that angled under the skin. "What did the mirror ever do to you? Jesus. This is going to scar."

"I tortured Kip." Anne said. She closed her eyes. "I thought he'd forgiven me. But how do you forgive that?"

Tig felt Gemma take a step towards them, and he held up a hand to stop her. The last thing he wanted was the queen spilling more of Anne's blood.

"Why?" Gemma asked. Tig could hear the danger in her voice.

Anne stared down at the blood. She flexed her hand and watched fresh blood flow. Then her eyes flicked up and she looked unflinchingly into Tig's eyes.

"I'd just hit a point where I didn't care about surviving anymore. Then Connor drops this kid at my feet and tells me to make him scream." Anne's eyes shifted to Gemma's. "And just like that, I was back on Connor's hook. That's why it was Kip, not Tig. It had to be someone young, someone breakable. I did what Connor told me to because it was always, always better than what Connor would do when I refused."

It was a kind of torture to hear her talk like that. Tig sighed. He heard Gemma turn and walk away. He took Anne's uninjured hand and made her hold the towel over the cut while he got the first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet. Glass crunched under boots.

As he wrapped Anne's hand in clean gauze, he stayed focused on the injury. He wasn't sure why he couldn't look at her face, but it was easier to look at her bloodied hand in his than it was to guess what she was thinking.

After a long silence, she spoke again. "He always gave me a choice. Knives or fire, me or him. I cut so that Connor wouldn't cut. I chose to be the kind of woman who could slice up a kid. I chose…"

"Shut up." Tig said. Anne wasn't crying, but she bowed her head. He was starting to understand. He didn't like it, but he understood. "All I'm hearing is that you weren't stupid. You're beating yourself up because you kept thinking instead of falling apart."

"When I get scared enough, something switches inside my head, and it's like I'm not even alive. With the knife in my hand and Kip screaming? I'd just... go cold." Anne's voice was barely a whisper. "Is that how you feel when you kill?"

It was a state he'd learned as a marine. It was useful. It meant you were thinking clearly, not just reacting with rage or fear. It was, however, this instinct of a killer. Looking at Anne he could see her capacity for cold-blooded acts, but also the scared little girl who couldn't quite accept what she was.

If she stuck with Sam Crow, what would she become? Or was it a matter of what she already was—too twisted to fit in her old life, too scared to embrace a new one.

Tig finished taping the gauze in place. He put his hand on the back of her neck and looked into her anxious green eyes. The mirror was broken, but she wasn't. Hurting, but not broken. Nothing could break her. If anything, she hated herself because she _wasn't_ broken, and though that she deserved to be.

He stood and pulled Anne to her feet. Glancing at the glitter of broken glass between her and the door, he put his hands at her waist lifted her over it. She didn't protest. When he set her down, she cradled her bandaged hand and closed her eyes as if she was very tired. Tig tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and studied her face. Hair colour aside, she really didn't look a thing like Agent Stahl.

He remembered her saying that she was scared she was turning into her sister. Well, now he knew what she had meant. In a way, it was funny that it freaked her out so badly, as if being strong was somehow a bad thing to be. Was it more noble to be a victim? Fuck that. He didn't like that she'd done things for Connor, but at the first chance, she'd killed him. To Tig, that was a kind of atonement.

He recalled the bite mark on her throat. Whatever she'd done, it was tangled up in sex. That was the part that worried him. If Connor had taught her to _like_ any part of it, he couldn't have her anywhere near Half-Sack. He'd seen women go from victim to predator; hell, half the crow eaters were probably trying to work through daddy issues.

"Did you enjoy it? Did it turn you on?" Tig asked bluntly. Anne's eyes went wide and she twisted to get away from him, but he caught her arm and held it. "Do you want to do it again?"

"_No." _ Anne tried to pull away. When she couldn't, her hateful eyes glared up at him. "It killed me. _It killed me._ I quit my job because I can't deal with kids anymore. I can't be around my friends because I'm terrified they'll see what kind of monster I am."

Tig's response was cut off by Gemma's firm voice. "Get in there!"

Gemma pushed Half-Sack into the room. She pointed at the couch and gave the prospect her full _don't fuck with me_ glare. Kip closed his eyes, sighed in frustration, and complied.

"You too." She jerked her head at Anne, who stood frozen until Tig gave her a push.

Gemma set a paper bag on the table. From it, she produced a large bottle of Bacardi 151, another of Pepsi, and an expertly rolled joint large enough to knock someone Bobby's size on his ass. She set each on the table and fetched two glasses from the kitchen. Lastly, she placed a Zippo next to the joint with a decisive click.

"This, children, is Sam Crow style therapy. Neither of you leaves this place until you settle whatever shit is eating you alive. Either of you try to bail, I'll shoot you myself. We clear?"

Tig suppressed a grin. It was too funny, too awful. Half-Sack nodded, and Anne stared at Gemma with a look of utter dismay.

The queen gestured for Tig to follow her. He reluctantly left Anne with Half-Sack. He trusted Gem when it came to emotional shit, but he didn't like the idea of a girl he half-way thought of as his getting drunk with another man, even a brother.

Gemma closed the door behind them and sighed. Her hazel eyes narrowed at Tig. "You owe me a mirror."

"Yeah, yeah." Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose. The clubhouse was empty at this time of day. He glanced back towards Jax's apartment. "You sure about this?"

"I'm sure that something's got to give. I'm tired of watching that boy act like a goddamn ghost."

"So he gets okay with Anne again, then she leaves. What's the point?"

Gemma deftly lit a cigarette and eyed Tig. "You keep girls at arms length. I know there are lots of reasons for that. But here's a girl who survived a month of… whatever that was… and still has the heart left to walk away from it. You wanna throw her away? Fine. Just don't kid yourself that you're doing it for her sake."

"What do you want me to say? I can't be a husband. I can't. I can't give her a white picket fence or kids or any of that shit. It's no use."

"She ask for any of that?"

"Not yet. But it's what they always want."

"They? Honey, women come in more breeds than just whore and homemaker." Gemma put her hand on Tig's cheek, and he breathed the familiar scent of her perfume. "I just wanna see everyone in my family happy. And for all that she's screwed up, that chick might be your best shot at something good."

It was too much to think about. Especially wondering what might happen between Anne and Half-Sack behind a closed door with enough booze to drop more than one pair of panties. Tig just shook his head and retreated to the garage.


	19. Chapter 19

_***_

_Sorry for the slow updates. I work full time, I try to have a life, and I'm in a bit of a dark head-space right now. Unthinkable things happen sometimes, and all you can do is clean up the mess and try to keep your head above water. I will shamelessly choose being outside in the sunshine with other people to being hunched over a computer right now. _

_I hope you're still enjoying the story. If there weren't people setting chapter alerts and leaving reviews, I'd never have gotten this far. I've got most of an ending written… now I just have to figure out how we're going to get there. I can't believe in either of these characters making anything easy on themselves, so there are some more bumps in the road before a resolution._

_-B_

_***_

After the garage closed, Tig avoided the clubhouse. He didn't trust himself not to intervene with whatever was going on behind closed doors. Gemma would, he had no doubt, make his life miserable if he meddled with her meddling. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop imagining Anne and Half-Sack writhing across the sheets, her lips and hands on the younger man's body. Gemma or someone else would have stopped them if they heard fighting, but fucking? They'd have left that alone.

Chibs agreed to hit the bars with him, which gave Tig a reason to ignore the smile that wouldn't quite leave the Scotsman's lips. Everyone seemed to think it was _terribly _amusing to see a girl with hooks in him.

They talked and played pool more than they drank, though Chibs struck up a lively flirtation with one of the waitresses. When bar closed their doors, Chibs headed home with the waitress perched on the back of his bike, her gleeful laughter drowned out by the engine. Tig watched them go, shaking his head. He missed the days when things had felt that simple; you liked it, you fucked it, you set it free.

Tig returned to the clubhouse. He'd pushed Anne from his mind, but without the lewd chatter of his brother and the distraction of flirtatious women, doubt came rushing back. He needed to know. And what if, after all that, one of them had hurt the other? Tense with dread, Tig unlocked the apartment door as quietly as he could. The kitchen light was still on, which gave him more than enough light to see both Anne and Half-Sack. He exhaled.

Half-Sack was sprawled on the floor in a semi-upright position, leaning back against the couch. He snored steadily. His head was tilted back and to the side, cheek touching Anne's out-flung hand. She lay on the couch, bandaged hand curled near her face and the other resting on Half-Sack's shoulder. All clothing was intact.

Anne still wore the librarian outfit from the day before. The skirt pooled around her legs in a spill of soft blue fabric. Tig touched her ankle, then ran his fingers up to the hem of her skirt. He withdrew his hand. This wasn't the time for giving into temptation.

Anne wouldn't be touching Half-Sack if they hadn't come to some kind of resolution, but she'd done it without fucking him. He realized that until now, he had never quite believed that she really wanted _him_, so much as the connection to an ally from Lodi. He had felt that if Half-Sack had come to her first, she'd have gone to his bed as easily as she'd gone to Tig's. Sure, there was something hot between him and Anne, but he suspected the same kind of tension lurked between her and Half-Sack.

But here they were, linked only the lightest touch. Tig brushed the hair from her face. He could smell the marijuana on her hair and clothes. It would have been nice to see her mellowed out on the high of Gemma's best green. His eyes slid to the bottle of 151 on the coffee table. It was nearly empty. Either both of them were going to be hung over in the morning, or Half-Sack was better at holding his liquor than ever suspected.

Tig stroked Anne's tangled hair, wrapping a lock of it around his fingers possessively before letting it fall. Over the years, he'd occasionally fucked women who were more beautiful, but Anne was prettier than most biker women. And unlike most chicks, she was useful for more than just eye-candy and a fuck. The astonishing fact was how she stayed strong without becoming brittle or angry. For all that had happened to her, she wasn't spitting poison at the world, like so many victims did. She _cared_ about Half-Sack. And she cared about Tig.

Curiousity satisfied, it was time to get out of here. As an afterthought, Tig shrugged out of his cut and took off the jacket underneath. He draped it over Anne, covering her bare limbs. Sure, it was pretty much leaving a red flag that he'd been in the apartment, but it was also a way to let Anne know that she was, at least from him, forgiven for Lodi.

In the morning, Tig sat down with Clay in the clubhouse. The rest of the boys were out, or opening up the shop for the day. Gemma set a mug of coffee and a doughnut in front of him and placed her hand affectionately on his shoulder, then leaned down to kiss Clay's cheek.

She poured two more mugs of the dark, bitter brew and said, "I'm going to go wake up the kids."

Clay chuckled. "Be nice."

"I'm always nice." Gemma replied over her shoulder.

Clay shook his head at his wife and then turned to Tig. "This time, I don't want you going to Oakland alone. No more stupid cowboy shit. If Half is good with the girl, take him with you. I don't want to look at his miserable face."

Tig shifted in his seat. He wasn't sure if Clay knew the extent of what happened in Lodi. "Did Gemma tell you...?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." There wasn't much more to say about it.

"Happy rode into Oakland last night. He'll meet you near the hospital. I don't want any bikes or cuts in sight of the hospital, you hear? You do what you have to, but the Sam Crow banner flies no where near Stahl."

"Agreed."

When Half-Sack stepped into the clubhouse, Tig glanced up, but Anne wasn't with him. Gemma followed the prospect, carrying Tig's leather jacket and wearing a smirk. She draped the jacket over the back of his chair without a word. Clay rolled his eyes.

"You cool?" Clay leaned back, casting a narrow eyed look at Half-Sack.

The prospect winced as if the sound of Clay's voice was too loud. He rubbed at his reddened eyes and shrugged. "Yeah… yeah."

"Stahl's sister is going back to the hospital today. You say the word, and she won't come back here. We'll find somewhere else to keep her till she goes home." Clay said.

Half-Sack's bleary eyes met Clay's with a sudden sharpness. "No. She can stay."

"I don't want you in the shop this morning." Clay said. "You look like your head would explode if we put a power-tool in your hands. Go to Oakland with Tigger and the girl."

Nodding unsteadily, Half-Sack pulled a pack of cigarettes from the rumpled pocket of his shirt and headed outside to light up.

"If she's half as badly off as he is, I'm going to be babysitting their hangovers all morning."

"Don't look at me. It was Gemma's idea."

"An idea that fucking _worked_, gentlemen."

"All hail the Queen." Clay said dryly. Gemma tossed a doughnut at his head, which Tig snatched out of the air.

"Still got your back, boss."

It was another half hour before Anne emerged, bearing the coffee mug clasped on both hands like it was the source of all her strength. Her damp hair trailed loosely over her shoulders. She was wearing jeans, suede leather boots, and an oversize green sweater that draped teasingly over her curves. The sleeves fell past her wrists, partially hiding the bandage. Clay laughed out loud at the look of perplexed pain on her face as she blinked at the lights. She winced at the volume, which just made Clay laugh harder.

"Some of us have to work today. I'll leave you to the babysitting." Clay said, patting Tig on the shoulder. He put his arm around Gemma's waist and the two of them left for the garage.

Anne approached Tig, set her coffee down, and leaned over the back of his chair. She lowered her head so that her cheek brushed his and slung her arms loosely around him. It was an endearingly sweet gesture; the kind of thing Gemma did with Clay. Anne's voice, close to his ear, was quiet.

"Sometimes, I'm really stupid." She touched the bandage. "I'm sorry."

Tig put his hand on her arm. The sweater was too librarian-like for his tastes, but it was soft. "You okay?"

She thought about it before replying. "Yeah, I am."

"How's the hang-over?"

"My head hurts." Anne said plaintively.

"Gemma brought doughnuts, if you can handle food."

She gave a sound of raw disgust and hid her face against his shoulder. Tig laughed and petted her hair. "Poor baby."

Anne took the seat Clay had left. She moved slowly, as if in pain, but her grace remained. She drew one knee up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself, regarding Tig pensively. When she spoke, it was matter of factly. "Today, I need to kill my sister. With a pen, of all things."

"She's already dead. All you're doing is letting her body go." Tig leaned back, narrowly watching Anne's face for weakness. He wasn't sure he could handle tears. All he saw, however, was a dark calm. She was in pain, but this was the same woman who'd stood over him while bullets flew around them. She was serene. "Are you ready for this? It doesn't have to be today."

"She would hate being stuck where she is now. I should have done it yesterday." Anne rested her chin on her knee and peered at Tig from behind a lock of her hair. "Are you coming with me?"

"I'll get you there, yeah. Half-Sack's coming. Happy will meet us in Oakland." He took a sip of coffee and looked at Anne over the rim of his mug. He wasn't sure how safe his next question was. "Is there anyone else in your family who should be there?"

Anne gave an enigmatic little smile. "No."

"Parents?"

"Died years ago." Anne shrugged. "Neither of us have kids, and June wasn't much for making friends."

"Hm." Broken families were nothing new to biker culture. In a way, Tig found it comforting that there weren't any more meddling Stahls around to give Anne or the Sons a hard time. If she'd had relatives, they'd take a dim view of her fucking a biker. It was sad for Anne to face something like this alone, however.

Looking at the girl across from him, Tig understood that this was where so much of her strength came from. Anne relied on no one. She did what she did because in her world, there was no one else. That made her vulnerable, but not fragile. It explained a lot about how she survived Lodi—instead of waiting for a rescue, she'd looked to her own resources. She expected to do things alone.

Which meant that if she was with Tig, it was because she wanted him, not because she needed him. It was with painful certainty that the idea crystallized; he wanted Anne to stay.

When it was time to leave for Oakland, Anne flinched at the sunlight in the courtyard. She covered her eyes with her unbandaged hand and regarded the world as if it were a grave insult. Gemma, who'd been watching from the office, joined them. It was, Tig reflected, a deep stroke of luck that the two women seemed to get along.

Gemma said something quietly into Anne's ear. The two embraced, and Tig nearly choked on the sudden mental picture of the two engaged in more passionate exchanges. Gemma stepped back and pulled a pair of sunglasses from her purse and set them on Anne's face. Both laughed. Tig looked away before either could notice the expression on his face.

Because he'd turned, Tig was the first to see the police car approaching the open gates of Teller-Morrow. He groaned. It wasn't Unser at the wheel. Hale had come for Anne.

"Gem." He said, and jerked his head towards the gate. She nodded and left Anne's side at an unhurried but long-legged pace, straight to the clubhouse.

He caught Half-Sack's eye. The prospect ambled up to Anne's side and leaned against the car. Tig turned to intercept Hale as the deputy stepped out of his car.

"Morning, Deputy. Car trouble?"

Hale's glare could have peeled paint. "Hoping to have a word with Mrs. Harris."

"Her sister's dying." Tig said flatly, ignoring Hale's emphasis on the _Mrs_. "You wanna bother her now? That's cold, man."

"Tell me what she's doing with the Sons. Explain to me how an ATF agent's sister just happens to fall in with you right around the time her sister gets gang-raped and beaten."

"Shit like that isn't our way, Hale."

"Your way?" Hale echoed, his eyes hardening. "I've seen your rap sheet, Trager."

Tig heard Anne's soft footstep the moment before her hand lightly touched his arm. She looked... innocent. Her eyes were wide and concerned. She seemed smaller than she had moments ago. She had never looked so timid under Nordic hands.

"I remember you. You pointed a gun at me." It should have sounded snarky, but Anne said it in a hushed voice. Her hand lingered on Tig's arm as if for comfort.

Hale was used to being treated like the badguy by bikers. He clearly wasn't used to having pretty women regard him as if he was dangerous.

"I'm sorry to have frightened you. I was concerned for the safety of Agent June Stahl."

"I appreciate that." Anne said. It was impossible to read her tone.

Hale's shoulders were tense, and his tone was defensive. "I was friends with her."

"Not many people were." Anne said softly.

"Can we talk in private?"

Anne shrugged stiffly. She was behaving as if she were intimidated. It made him grit his teeth until he remembered that she concealed her true feelings much better than this. Anne was deliberately acting frightened of Hale.

Hale glared at Tig. "Give us a moment, Trager."

Anne let her hand fall from Tig's shoulder. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's okay. He's just doing his job."

Hale was rattled, but he concealed it with an irritable shrug. "Thank you, ma'am. I won't take much of your time."

As much as Tig wanted himself or Clay to call the shots in any situation involving the Sons and Hale, this was for Anne to handle alone. It was important that it didn't look as if the Sons were controlling her at all. The situation was bad enough without giving Hale any added suspicions that Anne was either complicit in Stahl's death, or at risk from the Sons. He wasn't happy, but surprisingly, Tig felt calm. He trusted Anne to not do anything stupid. Sometimes, he didn't even trust _Gemma_ to not throw sparks and rile things up.

Rolling that idea around in his head, he nodded. It was hard to resist the urge to stare down Hale to make the deputy remember that badges didn't make a man, but that wouldn't have helped. If Anne could be smart, so could he. Tig went to stand with Half-Sack.

From a distance, they watched Anne. She led the deputy to the picnic table outside the clubhouse and sat across from him. Without seeming to move quickly at all, she took the bench facing Tig, which put Hale's back to the majority of the Sons. Tig smirked. He also noticed that she was sitting sideways on the bench with her arm resting on the table; it seemed casual and relaxed, but it kept her bandaged hand out of sight and meant that she could easily step away from the table at any moment. Clever girl.

They talked. Anne's eyes were downcast for most of it, as if she was weighed down with grief. At one point, Hale reached out to take Anne's hand in a gesture of compassion. Tig glanced across to the office windows and saw the shadow of Clay, also watching. That was good—let the president see that Anne had Hale wrapped around her finger.

It wasn't long before the deputy stood, nodded at Anne, and returned to his car. Once the car was out of sight, Anne rose and walked towards Tig. He wasn't used to women coming to him for comfort, but that's what she did, without hesitation or concern that he'd push her away. Her arms came up around his neck and she leaned into him.

"That guy thinks he's Superman." Anne said after a moment, her voice reproachful. "He wants to be a hero so badly that he'll get me killed if I can't convince him to drop it."

Tig looked down at her. She was shaken. "I thought you were just pretending to be scared."

Anne shook her head. "Not scared of _him_. Scared of him finding out about Connor. Yeah, I was playing it up for his benefit, but Lodi needs to stay a secret for all kinds of reasons."

"What did you tell him?"

"Same thing I told people back home." She shrugged. "Burned out on fighting the good fight with troubled kids, hopped in a car and went to visit my sister. One thing led to another and I met you in a bar."

"You told people you had a nervous breakdown?" Tig blinked.

She shrugged. "Yeah, it sounds bad, but people are more likely to believe an unflattering lie."

"Do you care at all what people think about you?"

Anne frowned at him. "And what do you think of me?"

"That you make a hangover look good."

Her smile—a sincere one this time—lit up her face. Tig kissed her firmly. If he could make her smile on this day of all days, maybe there was hope for the monsters after all.


	20. Chapter 20

_Hey look, I'm not dead. And the new season of SoA is coming up in a couple months. Spiffy. Sorry for the huge hiatus. _

_I like to think that the song The High Road by Broken Bells was playing on the stereo in the car during this chapter. "The dawn to end all nights, that's all we hoped it was. A break from the warfare in your house."_

_-B._

Tig hated hospitals. It was the smell of them, the indignity, and the way the staff always acted so goddamn smug. He felt doubly uncomfortable without his cut; both he and Half-Sack had left them in the trunk of the Chevy. It was hard not to envy Happy, who was hanging out with Tig's bike and a pack of cigarettes at a gas station a few minutes away.

At least they had a place to sit. The hospital must have provided the bench for the cops guarding Stahl's room. No uniforms were in sight now, however. Not much point protecting a corpse. In the end, even Stahl's coworkers had left her. So sad. Anne and a doctor were the only ones present at her death bed.

He had expected Half-Sack to be twitchy and annoying, but the boy had gone still in a way that was disturbingly like Anne. It was like sitting next to a ghost. Eyes hooded, arms folded across his chest, Half-Sack barely seemed to be breathing. One of the nurses walked past them, and Tig noticed that she adjusted her path to put a little more distance between herself and the two Sons. For the first time, he realized that Half-Sack had become—at least to others—intimidating. He didn't look like a kid anymore.

It wouldn't be long now. Anne had gone into Stahl's room twenty minutes ago. Tig didn't like the way the doctor had rested his hand consolingly on Anne's shoulder, but he bit his tongue and stayed in the hallway with Half-Sack.

A tall, dark-haired man in a business suit came down the hallway, his eyes scanning room numbers as he made his way towards them. His brown eyes took in Half-Sack and Tig before settling on the window to Stahl's room.

"Losing family is always a difficult thing." The man said meditatively, seeming to not notice how Tig was straightening in his seat or the way Half-Sack's lazy posture tensed. "I gather that's the sister?"

"Are you family?" Tig asked. Anne had said there wasn't any family to come.

"No. Just a friend of Agent Stahl's. I came to pay my respects, but I see I'm too late."

Fantastic. The man was probably ATF. Tig forced himself to relax.

"June was a very good agent. She gave her life for it." The stranger shrugged. He didn't seem upset. "But such are the risks of law enforcement. A pity."

Silence fell. Half-Sack watched the hall, Tig watched the man, and the man gazed into the room where Anne was witnessing her sister's death. It was, for Tig, deeply uncomfortable.

"It's over." The man said at last. He cast a hollow smile towards Tig and withdrew, walking back the way he'd come with the easy stride of a confident man. The two Sons exchanged a look, but there wasn't time to talk. The door handle turned, and Anne stepped into the hallway.

Tig wasn't sure what to expect of Anne. Grief made even calm people volatile. He watched her with some trepidation as she turned towards them. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn't crying. She looked first at Half, then Tig. After the barest hesitation, she reached for him. He wasn't sure it was a good thing that he'd become a comfort for her, but he liked knowing that she trusted him.

He heard the rattle before he saw the bottle of pills in her hand. He plucked it from her unresisting fingers and looked at the label. It was the Ativan he'd seen in her purse.

"How many did you take?"

She gave him a weary but dark look at the concern in his voice. "Two."

Tig exhaled and tightened his hold on Anne. It was a high dose, but as far as he knew, a safe one. She leaned into Tig, and let Half-Sack take her purse and the insurance papers.

"I don't want to be here anymore." She said quietly.

"No more bullshit paperwork to do?"

"We can leave."

"Then let's get the fuck out of here." Tig said. Half-Sack nodded.

Tig couldn't pin down how he felt. On the one hand, he was frustrated that he hadn't been able to protect her from this pain. On the other, he felt deep relief at knowing that Stahl would never, ever, darken the Sons doorstep again. It brought an end to one sad story, but showed him how terribly open he was to feeling for Anne. Anger, worry and affection waged war as he unlocked the Chevy.

Anne was silent on the way to the gas station. Every time he glanced over at her, she was calm and remote. He had the sense that she was pulling away from everything, including him. Tig sighed. She hadn't liked her sister, but on some level, Anne must have loved her. Family was complicated… but now Anne didn't have any family at all.

Before turning the wheel over to Half-Sack, Tig reached out and touched Anne's face, lightly pressing his palm to her cheek. He wanted to see her react. Anne blinked, and then turned towards him as if only just remembering that he was there. Her green eyes searched his face, and she smiled. It was a small smile, barely a quirk of her lips, but it was real.

"I'm okay, Tig. Just… processing." She put her hand over his. She was quiet, then spoke with a solemn weight. "Thank you."

He ignored Happy's amused stare as he retrieved his cut and bike. He felt better as soon as his cut was across his shoulders and his bike was under him. They let Half-Sack get a head-start before following, bikes side-by-side on the highway back to Charming. On the last stretch into town, as the sun threw long shadows across the road, they left the car behind and opened the throttle to fly the rest of the way home.

When Half-Sack pulled into the lot with Anne's rental Chevy, Tig was there to meet them. The prospect climbed out of the car alone. Anne was curled in the passenger seat, pale face tucked against her arm and half hidden by the drape of her sleeve. Half-Sack looked down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. "She fell asleep before we hit the highway. She looks so… I dunno. Innocent."

Tig shook his head and opened the passenger door. Anne didn't wake when he gathered her up in his arms, though she did stir enough to make a sleepy sound of protest. He carried her into the clubhouse, deliberately not looking at anyone at all.

Gemma appeared before the apartment door closed. "She okay?"

"Doped herself up on tranqs, but that might be for the best." Tig laid Anne down on the bed and sat wearily next to her.

"She might be the only one in the whole goddamn world to give a shit that Stahl's dead." Gemma said, approaching the bedside. She rested her hand on Anne's forehead, but her eyes were on Tig. Her face was both sad and loving.

"You're in over your head with her, aren't you?" Gemma's voice was dry. "No bullshitting me this time."

Tig shook his head and avoided Gemma's eyes. He realized he was staring at Anne. It was enough of an answer. There wasn't any point in pretending he had any kind of objectivity when it came to Anne. Gemma leaned over the bed and kissed him lightly, her soft lips just touching his cheek.

"Tomorrow, her pride will be back, and she'll remember falling apart today. She'll push you away. She'll throw up walls." Gemma predicted, her voice low and her eyes unblinking. You can't make this girl chase you, Tig. She wants you, but she won't say she needs you, or anyone else."

"How do you know that?"

"She's a proud bitch. I get that." Gemma's eyes lit with amusement at the look on Tig's face. "All the rest, yeah, she's not like me. She's too quiet, she lets people think she's weak. Fuck that. But the pride? She's got that in spades, Tig. If she didn't, you wouldn't want her so bad."

"You think she'd stay in Charming?"

Gemma shrugged. "What else has she got? You, and a whole lot of nothing."

Tig stayed silent as Gemma fetched a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over Anne. He watched the queen stroke Anne's gleaming hair before quietly leaving the apartment. When the door shut, Tig rubbed at his eyes with one hand.

Even with a chain around her neck, there'd been something dignified about Anne that the Nordics couldn't break. He remembered the pride burning behind her angry, hurting eyes. Vulnerable, yes. Fragile, no. He'd only ever seen her fighting one battle or another. What would she be like if she felt secure? How strong would she be then?

There were no answers from the sleeping woman at his side. No guarantee that if she stuck around, things would stay good. The last time she left, she'd made the choice to run before the passion between them went bad. If he let her, she'd run again. It was all about the pride. Tig ran his fingers across her cheek and down to her throat, where the chain no longer rested against her skin. Her pulse was slow and steady under his hand. If he told her to stay, she'd feel the chain tightening and run. And if he asked? What would she say?

He leaned over Anne, eyes searching her face for any sign of consciousness and seeing none. Anne's lips were cool and soft under his. His hand tangled in her hair as he tilted back her head, baring more of her pale throat. There were faint scars there, pink against the whiteness, where the chain had chafed against her skin for weeks. He tasted the scars, feeling a strange sense of ownership of them. She'd been staked out by the Nordics as temptation, and he had taken her away from them.

Tig pulled away the blanket and let his hands wander over her body. She wouldn't have stopped him, if she'd been awake, but the thought that she couldn't stop him was enticing. He slid his hand under the oversized sweater, closing his eyes at the pleasure of her silken skin, firm and warm.

Lowering more of his weight over her, Tig lightly bit the skin where her shoulder met her neck. His hand found her breast and he shuddered, lust and temptation warring with consequence. Mouth still at her neck, he bit harder, not breaking the skin but hard enough to hurt if she'd been awake. He needed to stop, or he'd leave marks on her. Pulling back from her bare throat, he saw her lips part. Tig stilled, but Anne was remained asleep. He kissed her lips, more gently, lowering his hand to her hip.

As his hand roamed down her leg and more slowly up her inner thigh, he wished she'd worn a skirt instead of jeans today. But maybe that was for the best. Anne's eyelashes trembled at dreams. There was no pride between them in this moment. He pressed his forehead to hers, and as his hand brushed across her breast before encircling her throat, she moaned softly.

A smirk twisted Tig's lips. He trailed his fingers along her arm, then back under the hem of her sweater. He put his lips to her ear, nipping at her earlobe, and was rewarded by another breathy sound of arousal.

"Dream of me," he commanded, voice soft and his lips touching her skin. Better to have her dreaming of a righteously good fuck than of her sister, or about Lodi.

It was hard to pull his hands away from her body, but he needed to put distance between them before he went too far. Anne was deep in her dreams, and by the look of her flushed lips, she was having good one. Even in her sleep, she gave herself to him. He felt powerful. He felt an overwhelming sense of both ownership and protectiveness for the woman under him.

Tig stood and looked down at Anne. He adjusted her sweater so that it was less obvious she'd been touched and retrieved the blanket from the floor. His hand lingered by her face for a long moment, and he growled quietly in frustration. Clothes and pride, always in the way.

He left Anne to her dreams. Tomorrow they could figure out where things stood.


	21. Chapter 21

_Last week, I watched Inglourious Basterds for the first time since the Christmas holidays. It was only in seeing it the second time that I realized how much Soshanna is an inspiration for Anne. She's not one for emotional outbursts, and she has none of the flashy showmanship that Hammersmark uses to control situations. Nonetheless, she's a canny chick who keeps her mouth shut and does what needs doing. She bends, but does not break. And underneath it, she's carrying enough fear/anger/hurt to burn the country down. Anne would get that. She considers emotional outbursts to be a sign of weakness, and ruthlessly censors herself. Not always a healthy trait, but Anne is acclimatized to unhealthy situations. Tig is a walking unhealthy situation, so that's for the best._

_And since I'm in a mood for disclosure, I envision Anne as looking a lot like Jennifer Connelly. Not Labyrinth Jennifer, but Requiem for a Dream Jennifer—that was how I saw Anne in the warehouse. Oh those eyes… it's not an easy movie to watch._

_If you're just reading for the squishy stuff and don't give a shit about the plot you can safely skip most of this chapter. Also, I took some liberties with the time-line to account for poor planning. Sorry!_

_-B._

By the time the sun went down, it seemed impossible for one day to hold so much crazy shit. It was for the best that Anne was out cold and out of the way.

Opie was back from his grief-fueled walkabout. He'd blown into town shortly after they got back from Oakland. It was a changed man who stared down the club in church, heavily bearded, slimmer, and eyes gone dark. Fortunately, but he bought the line about the Mayans killing Donna. It had been chilling to see the cold cruelty in Opie, knowing it should have been aimed at Tig, but at least they'd given him what resolution could be found. Maybe now, standing on the wreckage of mistakes and pride, the club could be strong again. Secrets only hurt you if they didn't stay secret.

Things in the club had been tense since Donna's death, but tonight was the night Bobby would get home from prison. Finally, a break in the storm of crazy surrounding Charming. Opie didn't look ready to party, but he'd returned in time to see Bobby home. That was how you honoured your club. At least the brotherhood was back together.

Gemma leaned up against the bar where Tig stood, waiting for Clay. She quirked her lips in the infuriating and attractive way she always did when she had the upper-hand. "Shame your girl couldn't play tonight."

"Yeah. She took Stahl's death pretty hard." He shrugged, then with some defensiveness added, "But she never cried. Girl's more wolf than woman, I think."

"Wolves are pack animals." She glanced over at a stripper who was doing a few warm-up twirls around the pole. "Think she'd be down with this kind of party?"

"Dunno. She's not like most girls."

"Not the ones around here, anyway." Gemma frowned. "Hope she stays quiet once she's not so nervous. Too many mouthy bitches around here already."

"Ain't that the truth." Tig replied, letting her see his smirk.

Gemma narrowed her eyes but let the sly implication pass. "Have some fun, Tig. The club needs a little relaxation right now. Bobby coming back, the charges blowing over… this is what we need. A little levity to do the soul good."

Clay was gesturing for Tig to come out to the garage, so he gave an ironic bow to Gemma and left the clubhouse. Under the fluorescent lights of the garage, voices drowned out by blaring rock music, the two men had a brief but intense talk about Opie and the mess he'd made of the Mayan. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an unfamiliar car pulling into the Teller-Morrow lot. At first he thought it was ATF dropping off Bobby, but it was too early, and that wasn't a government car.

Tig and Clay approached, walking in step. It felt good to move as a club, like a pack of wolves circling the unwelcome strangers. Chibs, Opie, Juice, Happy, and Half-Sack completed the circle, all feral smiles and narrowed eyes. But then, a surprise. The man who stepped out of the car was the same one he'd seen in the hospital while Stahl died. A lot of things became very clear in a short period of time.

White. Fucking. Supremacists. Who the hell lives that way? Bad for business, and such a fucking stupid line to live behind. Tig's hands closed into fists. Race mattered, yeah, but it wasn't about who owned the world—brothers and money mattered more than colour, every goddamn time. And anyone who didn't see the sexiness of a confident Latina woman was a moron.

And then, the obvious struck Tig smack in the face. This was the reason Stahl was dead. This man, or his pet Nazi Weston, had killed the ATF agent. It was a short line to draw between these righteous bastards and the Nords. These men were why his woman was sleeping with tranquillizers tonight. And more importantly, they were men who would do the same thing to Anne that they'd done to her sister.

Anger swallowed him, but he rode the wave of it, guiding it towards making plans instead of just attacking. When the _businessmen_ withdrew, leaving their offering of cigars at Clay's feet, Tig and Happy prowled in the wake of the car. They watched it until the tail-lights vanished down the road.

Happy turned dark eyes on Tig. "He's a problem."

"That fucker showed up at the hospital. He stood right next to me and Half until Stahl was confirmed dead."

"Nord."

"He's higher up the food chain than that. But yeah, I think it's connected to Lodi."

Happy just nodded. People were going to die, and more than likely, it would be the two of them doing most of the killing. Soldiers, brothers.

It was a short, furious meeting with the hastily gathered ranks of SAMCO. There was no question of calling off Bobby's party on account of some Nazis throwing threats around. Clay snarled, "No one rides alone, especially the women. Other than that, we do not acknowledge those pricks. Charming is ours. A cigar shop and some cuddling with the Hale brothers ain't going to change that."

When Bobby arrived, it was impossible to stay angry. Not having the fat bastard around just felt weird, and the books were a mess. They needed him. And what was there to be upset about, anyway? Tig knew exactly where Anne was—in a building surrounded by brothers and enough guns to arm a small legion. Zoebelle and Weston couldn't touch her. Tomorrow, Clay would pull their gang connections and Juice would nerd it up with his laptop to figure out what they were dealing with. Tonight, it was beer, bitches, and Bobby's return.

With Zoebelle long gone, the party wound up. It was good to feel the bass vibrating through his bones and the strippers were hot as hell to watch. Knowing Anne was out cold, he let his hands wander over any of the young things who strayed across his path. If Anne stayed, he figured he'd be under the same kind of rules Clay lived by—which meant that his time for indiscriminately groping crow-eaters was coming to an end.

He had planned to crash in the clubhouse that night and avoid the temptation of Anne's vulnerable body. It was useless. The thought of her sleeping alone drew him in like a moth to a flame. Now that he knew what the threat against Anne was real, it felt important to watch over her. He didn't like the idea of her being alone while Zoebelle's men were out there.

But Anne was not alone. Adrenaline surged when he saw that the kitchen light was on and the bedroom door was open, burning through his buzz in a matter of seconds. His first thought was Gemma, but the queen had been carried off to bed—literally—by Clay, hours ago. Tig reached for his gun and came around the corner on wary, silent feet. The kitchen cast enough light to dimly illuminate the bedroom, revealing the slouched silhouette of Half-Sack. Anne was still asleep. Tig eased the gun back and leaned in the doorway, suddenly exhausted.

"The hell, man? Didn't know you were in here." Tig said.

"Hey." Half-Sack's voice was quiet.

Tig stared the prospect down, the question as sharp as a drawn knife between them. Half-Sack finally broke the silence.

"She's your girl. I get that. Ain't moving in on her, never planned to. She's like, I dunno, ten years older than me anyway." In the dim room, Half-Sack's shoulder twitched in a shrug. "But my head's all fucked up, and at the middle of it, she's there."

"So?"

"I needed to see her sleeping again. I needed to see her helpless." He said, then seemed to realize how his words sounded. He spoke more quickly. "I don't want to hurt her, Tig, I swear to god I don't."

"Then what? What do you want from her?" Tig could hear the edge in his voice. If Half-Sack couldn't be okay with Anne, then Clay was never going to let her stay. He'd lose her. He sighed in exasperation. "The fuck is it with you two? You're best buds one minute, then you're both freaking out the next."

Half-Sack shrugged again. "I hate her. And I love her. All at the same time."

"She did it to protect you." Tig said uneasily. He didn't want to think how much of the screaming he'd heard in the warehouse had been because of Anne's delicate hands. Half-Sack nodded slowly.

"She's like Happy. She can do shit that no one should be able to do. She hated Connor using her, but she did everything he asked, because that was the best way to protect us. She never panicked, never cried. That's _crazy_. She didn't even choke up when she watched her sister die." Half-Sack frowned. He lifted his hand as if to touch Anne's face, but thought better of it. "If she were a man, we'd either shoot her or patch her."

Tig rested his head against the door frame and closed his eyes.

Sometimes I think she's a monster, Tig. But then I see her like this…" Half-Sack looked down on Anne with an expression of determination and protectiveness"…and I can remember that she got hurt as badly as I did."

Tig thought about what Gemma had said about pride. "She's too proud to show it. But she has nightmares, and she's got scars like yours."

Half-Sack nodded again. He stood, still looking down at Anne. "I think she should stay. She's too fucked up to live a normal life now. Maybe she deserves us."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Isn't it? We're a brotherhood. Women come second, always will. Gemma built this club, and Tara's got history. But Mary? Piney loved her and she still got run into the ground by this club. Bobby's ex-wives, that blond chick who got shit-kicked by one of Happy's old flings? Women have to be crazy to want us."

Tig noted that the list did not include Donna. It didn't need to. Women getting killed was rare in clubs, but it happened. This was a distressing amount of insight to come from a moronic kid half Tig's age.

"Sack. Get the fuck out of here." Tig said it firmly, but with no anger or venom. Half-Sack was right. And somehow, his anger was drained by the sight of Anne, peaceful and safe. Half-Sack wasn't the only brother who'd been changed by Lodi.

"Yeah, yeah." Half-Sack replied. "You gonna keep her?"

Tig gritted his teeth. "Yes."

"Then make her your old lady. Protect her." Half-Sack said, more iron in his voice than Tig had heard from the boy, even over that scrawny hang-around he'd gone nuts for last year.

"And if I don't?" Call a woman an old lady and you might as well be calling her wife. Tig had no intentions of sharing Anne with anyone, but he wasn't keen on the idea of getting trapped, either.

"Damn it, Tig." Half-Sack stood. His expression was too tormented for him to look threatening.

"Look, _prospect_." Tig growled. "I'm not responsible for her. She's done a pretty fucking good job keeping alive so far, and if she wants to stick with the club, that's her choice."

"She's in love with you. That's no choice." Half-Sack moved to the doorway and waited for Tig to step out of the way. "If she knows you want her here, she'll stay, even if it gets her hurt."

Tig stayed standing on the threshold of the bedroom long after Half-Sack had left. Eventually, he shed his shirt and jeans and slung his cut over the back of a chair. Once he'd turned out the kitchen light, he moved through the darkness to Anne.

At first, he lay next to her, but not touching her. He blindly gazed at the ceiling and imagined that he could feel the heat from her body against his skin, though she lay several inches away. Her body was coiled defensively in sleep, face turned away from him.

He rolled onto his side and looked down at the shadowed face of the woman who might love him. In another lifetime, he'd never have let her any closer than arms-reach, emotionally. Yeah, fucking her was a given—who could resist that kind of sweetness?—but getting involved wouldn't have been on the table at all. Things were different now.

Tig knew how close he'd come to getting killed in Lodi. Without the phone Anne had jacked, he and Half-Sack would have been worm-food. Half-Sack was a changed man, but so was Tig. He wanted to live. Having come so close to getting splattered, he wanted to have life by the throat, wringing the most out of it. And maybe, maybe, that meant keeping a queen of his own. Where else was he going to find a woman who was hot, didn't finch at the sight of a little blood, knew when to keep her mouth shut, _and_ wasn't dumb as a sack of rocks? Gemma was already taken.

When he pulled Anne firmly but gently against him, burying his face in the clean softness of her hair, she made a quiet sound of welcome. There were no words. Tig didn't think she was even really awake. She just melted against him, and when he placed his hand over hers, their fingers fit together in a way that was deeply comforting. He fell asleep embracing the woman he was ready to claim as his own.


	22. Chapter 22

_It's been a rough few months. I'm okay, but my hands are still awfully full. Life is hard, sometimes._

_As for SoA, anyone else think Season 3 was a bit of a lame duck? I mean, it wasn't terrible, but it really lacked the cohesion, power, and characterization that Season 2 rocked. The finale made up for a lot, but I'm hoping S4 will be better. Or maybe I just hate plots that revolve around babies. Babies are just not that interesting._

_The songs for today are "The Devil Won" by Jan Arden and "Safe to Land" by Jars of Clay. (Sure, they're a Christian Rock band which ain't normally my thing, but they make some really powerful music.) The first song is about wanting to run away, and the second song is about desperately wanting to trust. Anne's biggest fears are ending up a victim like her mother, or a monster like her sister. She doesn't trust herself to not become one or the other in Tig's world. Fear can be bigger than love. Often it is. _

_-B._

Tig was exhausted. He'd been burning up time for days, both in the mornings and late at night. The club and working at Teller-Morrow was a full life for a young man. Tig was on the dark side of forty, and dealing with Anne's shit was keeping him on edge. He felt not only the tug of Anne's gravity on his life, but the weight of responsibility Clay needed him to carry. It wasn't any surprise that he slept deeply. It was, however, a surprise to wake up alone.

He listened for the shower, or any sign that Anne was in the apartment, but it was silent. The clock next to the bed read seven in the morning, which was an ungodly hour to be moving around. Tig groaned and sat up.

A sinking feeling set in. Then he saw the note left where Anne had been lying. The sinking feeling curdled into anger. The note said only, "I'm not ready for this."

He read it over again, disbelieving. Tig crushed the paper in his hand. He closed his eyes and exhaled through clenched teeth.

He was still trying to sort out the storm of fear, anger and rejection when his cell phone rattled against the bedside table. It was the pre-pay phone—not one he'd ever ignore. The call display showed Happy.

"Hey."

"Hey, man. You just wake up?" Happy's low, gravelly voice sounded graver than usual.

"Yeah. What's up?"

"Stahl's sister rabbited off this morning."

Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose and pushed down his rage. "I know."

"I followed her."

"Why didn't you stop her?" He knew his voice betrayed how upset he was, but there wasn't any helping it.

Happy just snorted. It was a stupid question. "She could have been running home to ATF. Or she could have been Nord bait after all. You're not objective when it comes to that chick, Tigger."

The nomad was right. Anne could have been screwing with them, then waiting for a chance to scamper back where she belonged. "And?"

"Looks like she's just a scared little girl trying to run home." Happy sounded almost disappointed. "But Tig, she's in trouble."

Relief and terror battled for supremacy. "What kind of trouble?"

"She got run off the road and picked up by some guys."

Tig's first thought was to say fuck her, she ran, let her deal with the consequences. But then he reached for his clothes. He'd bail the cowardly bitch out, and then he could tell her to fuck off back to her miserable, saintly life.

"White, black, or brown?"

"Righteous white. One of the cars was the same one that Zoebelle fuck showed up in last night. It's like they want us to know it's them."

Happy waited patiently while Tig swore. "So now I'm going to go risk lives for the girl who fucking left me."

"Screw the girl. We're gonna go kill Nazis."

Tig was furious, but Happy's dispassionate logic penetrated. I didn't matter what Anne was thinking; as far as other gangs were concerned, she was property of the Sons. It wasn't about her, it was about the club. Anger kept him warm. It was easier than the cold fear that Anne had just gotten herself killed. Or worse, killed because she was so desperate to get away from him.

"They know you're following?"

"Not yet." Happy made a noise of annoyance. "I took the Ford from the garage. She'd have spotted a bike on her tail."

"Good. Keep on 'em." Tig snarled.

Even as he called Clay, Tig was imagining what he'd do once he had those bastards under his hands. Opie had carved an A in the chest of the dead Mayan he thought had killed his wife. Brutal, but nothing compared to what Tig could do if Anne was hurt. Opie'd turned into a twisted bastard over the last few months. Tig had _years_ more practice.

Clay wasted a good twenty seconds swearing, his voice husky with tiredness and fury. Tig heard Gemma's sleepy query in the background. Finally, Clay pulled himself together.

"I thought you said that bitch was smart, Tig."

"She didn't know about Zoebelle. She was asleep when I crashed last night." Tig didn't know why he was defending her.

"Are we doing this to get her back, or to break Nazi skulls?"

Tig flinched. "Break skulls."

"Good answer. We get the brothers that are sober enough to ride and teach those fuckers not to mess with us. Bobby ain't gonna be fit to shoot a gun straight—I want him and Piney at the clubhouse digging in. Get Juice and Half-Sack to pick up my lady here and grab Tara. Until we figure this out, the_ real_ old ladies get protected. The boys can follow us in with the van—we might need it." Clay muttered something to Gemma, then asked. "Who crashed out in the clubhouse last night?"

Tig finished pulling on his cut without taking the phone from his ear and walked out to the clubhouse to scan the room. Juice was snoring loudly, his head pillowed on the generous thighs of a fake-blond stripper with hollows under her eyes. Tig prodded him sharply with his boot. "Juice, Bobby and Half-Sack are here."

"Good. I'll get Jax up to speed and pull Chibs out of whatever crow-eater he fell into last night. You get Opie and Piney."

Brothers back brothers. Jax, Piney and Chibs were quick to come. Opie had gone silent for a second before grunting an affirmative and hanging up his cell. It was less than an hour before the club was fully roused and on the road.

They rode hard and fast, but it didn't feel fast enough. Tig's hands itched to hurt someone. He hated Anne for this. Not keeping a woman meant you never had to feel this way. Anne twisted him around, screwed with his head, then slipped away like a guilty thief in the night. When they drove past the scene where Anne's Chevy had gone off the road, Tig felt the familiar cold blackness of war chilling the rage and replacing it with something far darker. The car had fully spun around to face the way it had come, leaving wide grooves in the dirt next to the road. The driver's side was smashed in where another car had impacted.

Happy called in when the kidnappers stopped at a nearly deserted, one-story motel an hour out of Bakersfield. A motel wasn't the most secure place to hold someone. If they'd noticed Happy tailing them, they'd never have gone to ground someplace so breachable. Their hubris was infuriating, but convenient.

What would you keep a prisoner alive for? Anne didn't have any information worth torturing out of her. She wasn't good as leverage against the ATF with her sister dead. This was either vengeance for what happened to Connor, or a way to tear at the Sons. Maybe it would have been Tara or Gemma who got jumped if they'd been the ones caught alone. Either way, it came down to pride and money. Almost everything in Tig's world did.

They met with Happy a good distance from the motel. Tig wasn't the only brother looking worse for wear. All of them were tired and angry.

"Who kidnaps someone at six in the morn'?" Chibs growled. "It's uncivilized."

"Only the higher class of criminals." Clay said. "This is a message. We're just lucky as fuck Happy caught her leaving. We can deal with the problem now, 'stead of letting them call the shots later. As long as it's theirs, blood is better than bargaining."

"Too fecking right." Chibs checked the clip in his rifle for the second time.

Plans were made. Jax and Clay argued fiercely over the details while Tig tried not to yell at the both of them. Juice and Half-Sack arrived in the van, pulling up behind the bikes. The extra manpower was comforting. Happy had seen four men in two cars jump Anne, but he wasn't sure if there were others in the motel room.

This was not the first time SAMCRO had gone to war, and definitely not the first time they'd broken down doors to carry out violence. Finally, they moved in. A swift but thorough recon showed that the only guard the kidnappers posted was baked out of his skull and half asleep in the parked car outside the doors. A silenced bullet took care of him before he even knew he had a problem.

Jax and Opie went to intercept any surprises and silence the motel staff. The rest of the brothers took positions around the motel door, guns raised. Once everyone was in place, Clay, Half-Sack and Juice hurled rocks through the front windows to shatter the glass and expose the room. Tig kicked in the door. Bullets flew and for the eternal stretch of a few seconds, Tig felt nothing but adrenaline and the gun in his hands.

It was easy. It usually was when your enemy didn't expect you. Who would expect a bunch of drunken bikers to rouse themselves so early? Three of the kidnappers were dead and bleeding on the orange patterned carpeting. One had been bandaging an injured arm; the gauze now unfurled across the floor, crimson in patches. The fourth man, the one who'd stood at Zoebelle's side when they tried to shake Clay, was backed up in a corner with Anne held tightly against him with one tattooed arm. His other hand leveled at her head. She'd been stripped down to her underwear. Fresh bruises from the crash were blooming on her white skin. She didn't look badly injured, but Anne didn't seem completely aware of what was going on around her. Tig forced his eyes away from her and into the eyes of his enemy.

"Didn't think we'd see you again so soon." Clay said, coolly.

Ignoring Clay, the man turned on Half-Sack and grinned. "You. I know you."

The prospect frowned, but his gun didn't waver. "Dunno what you're talking about. Let the girl go. She's not going to save your ass, man."

"I have video." The man said. Half-Sack turned white. "Annie and I were just watching some of the highlights. You fucking Neanderthals were so eager to torch Connor's warehouse that you didn't even notice that the security cameras sent a feed to another network."

Half-Sack's gun trembled. He steadied his grip and said nothing.

"You should see yourself. So macho, so tough… for a little while. And then when you started screaming, it's like you just couldn't stop." His gaze shifted to Tig. "And oh, the things I've seen this girl do. I was going to get her to show me what Connor taught her. It's good to remind a whore of her place."

What do you do when you want to kill someone _so very badly_, but they've got a gun to someone you can't stand to see hurt? Sure, you could take the shot and splatter his brains across the wall behind him, but maybe he'd twitch and then Anne would be just as dead.

Opie, having just entered the room with Jax hot on his heels, made the decision. He shot the nazi's _hand_. The bullet shredded the man's palm clear to his wrist, and the gun dropped in a mist of red. The bullet penetrated through to his chest. He did not scream, he roared.

Anne, moving with a deftness that made a lie of her seeming disorientation, slipped out of his grip. She crouched, scooped the man's gore-soaked gun from the ground, and almost evaded being caught again. His good hand seized her hair and hauled her back in front of him. The power in the room had shifted, however. Tig launched himself at her attacker, driving his forearm into the man's throat.

Opie's calm, deep voice cut through the snarled threats. "You can let her go, or you can lose your other hand."

The nazi reluctantly released Anne. She wrenched away from him, her bare feet skidding in the growing puddle of blood, then stilled herself and took three calm steps away to get out of reach. She lifted his gun, joining the brothers who encircled him. Tig looked over his shoulder at her. She was breathing too fast, but steady.

A snarl of pained outrage turned into a chuckle through the nazi's gritted teeth. "You fucking race-traitors. Charming's gonna fall to the League. If you'd just let the Nords have their share and stopped catering to niggers and wetbacks, it would never have come to this."

Tig leaned in, resting his weight on the arm that pinned the Nazi to the wall. It would be so easy to crush his throat and watch him flop around like a fish out of water.

Half-Sack's hand landed firmly on Tig's shoulder. He looked at the prospect, cursed, and stepped back. Half-Sack needed this more than he did.

Unsupported, the nazi slid down the wall, his hemorrhaging hand clutched to his chest. Half-Sack crouched next to him in the sea of blood, going to eye to eye with him. "Whatever happens in Charming, you're not going to be around long enough to care."

"I know how weak you are, boy." But the man's words were fainter. He was losing blood too fast, his skin going grey. "You'd be dead if that whore hadn't taken the hits you couldn't."

Half-Sack drew a knife from his belt. His lips twisted in something that wasn't quite a smile, and he slammed the blade into the man's thigh, his hand remaining firm on the hilt. When the scream died away, Half-Sack spoke again. "Anne ain't the only one who learned things in Lodi."

He didn't yank the knife free. He gradually pulled it from the leg, levering it back and forth, eliciting a long and high scream that made Half-Sack smile. He looked over at Anne, who stood like a statue, the gun still raised. Her arms must have been aching, but she was motionless.

"Annie." Half-Sack stood. "He'll bleed out in minutes."

It was an invitation to take her turn. Half-Sack wasn't treating her like a woman—he was treating her like a brother. Tig winced, but kept silent. Anne blinked and lowered the gun. She stared at the bleeding wreck of a man at Half-Sack's feet. When she spoke, her voice was cold and firm.

"He's yours." She threw the gun so that it skidded away to the corner of the room. Even half-naked and with blood on her face, she looked defiant. Her eyes shifted to Tig, and he saw her stoic mask crack for an instant. She spun, hiding her face from him, and snatched her backpack from the floor next to the bed. The washroom door clicked shut behind her. She'd passed her turn by, leaving her attacker to the mercy of the Sons.

Clay rolled his eyes. "End him, or I will. We need to get out of here."

Half-Sack—the former vegetarian prospect—stabbed Weston in the other leg. With his knife sheathed in the Nazi, he drew his gun, took a step back, and shot him in the head.

It would never have been this easy if Happy hadn't moved the way he had. Yeah, it would have been better if Anne hadn't been allowed to leave the clubhouse at all, but now they knew that she wasn't working for the enemy. She was just… not the woman Tig had thought she was.

Tig put his hand on the nomad's shoulder. Sometimes the words "thank you" weren't quite enough. Silence worked better.

"What do you want to do with this?" Juice asked. He held up a set of discs. The security video from Lodi. Part of Tig wanted to watch them, to _know_ what had happened.

Jax shook his head. "Is this behind us now?"

"Up to Tig and Half-Sack." Clay replied. "I don't want to watch that shit."

A glance at Half-Sack's face made up Tig's mind. He pulled the lighter from his back pocket and took one of the discs from Juice's hand. Holding the disc carefully, he bathed the surface of it in flame, melting away the evidence. Half-Sack watched intently as he destroyed both discs.

"Are the files on the computer, too?" Jax asked.

"Not for long." Juice replied. "We should take the laptop, though. It might have other important things on it."

"Fine." Tig said. "Let's get this mess done with."

Anne stepped back into the room. At a glance, she looked cool and unconcerned, but Tig recognized the tension in her hands and the whiteness of her face. She had washed the blood off her skin and changed into clean clothes. She looked at Tig without flinching, but he saw the slight tremor pass through her body.

Clay cast a disgusted look in Anne's direction before grabbing Jax and leaving the destroyed room. Opie and Juice also cleared out, muttering something about making sure no one besides the clerk—who was hiding under his desk with a wad of cash that said he hadn't seen anything at all—had heard the cacophony of screaming and gunshots.

Chibs ignored the suddenly icy atmosphere and continued riffling through the goons pockets and making a stack of their weapons, wallets, and drugs. Happy worked with him, but not without giving Anne an appreciative eye-fuck first. Tig stifled a growl and closed the distance between them with angry strides.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

The relief or knowing she was safe quickly vanished under the crippling weight of fury.

"You ran. You fucking ran away."

Anne shuddered and shrank back from him. Merciless, Tig stepped closer. He felt sick. He knew that frightening Anne would drive her away even faster, but what did he have to lose? She'd already left him.

"I've tossed more women out of my bed than I can count, and the one I ask to stay bails? I thought you were brave, but you're just a scared little girl."

"Tig, c'mon." Chibs said, looking up from the corpse. Tig shrugged off his brother's warning and took another step towards Anne. Her back was against the wall. She couldn't run now. The only way out was though Tig.

"A mechanic isn't good enough for you?"

Anne glared up at him, but she didn't dignify his question with an answer. Being a mechanic would never have been a problem. It was the other side of his life she probably couldn't hack. For the first time in many, many years, being a Son was something other than a source of pride.

"Are you scared of me? Are you scared of what I do?" He growled, pitching his voice low.

"The only time I'm not scared is when I'm with you." She spat back, pushing at him with both hands. It was uncanny how easily she could disarm him.

"Then what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I can't be a crow eater. I can't be your pet, or your project." Anne looked lost, struggling for words. Her hands tightened on his arms, no longer pushing him away. "I..."

Tig struck the wall behind Anne's head with the palm of his hand. He expected her to flinch, but she just looked away. He almost laughed when he realized that she had no doubt that he wouldn't actually hurt her. He'd hit women before, made others cry by yelling like he was now, but Anne really wasn't afraid of him.

"I know you're not stupid, but if you can't see that you're different than all those bitches then you aren't as smart as I thought. This could be your family—a real one, not whatever sad excuse you grew up with."

Anne glared at him, but behind her anger he could see real fear. He didn't understand it, and it was infuriating. He repeated the question.

"What are you so scared of?"

A tear slid down her cheek. "It'll break. It'll all be good for a while, then one of us will fuck it up, and you'll hate me for being in your way. It always goes bad."

"Oh hell..." He remembered her failed marriage. Anne was silent, but he could see the vulnerability in her eyes. Tig bowed his head so that his forehead just touched hers. "Just cause things can go bad, doesn't mean they will."

He felt her resolve waver. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Tig kissed her. It started out gently, but quickly turned savage as he took ownership of both her and the kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears. Then he felt her pushing to get free.

Her voice was plaintive. "I promised myself I'd never give up my life for a man, ever again."

"What life?" Tig said bitterly. She had quit her job already. She had come to California alone. The way he saw it, she was already adrift. Why couldn't she see Charming as a harbour?

Anne's face went still. She shoved him hard enough to drive him back a step. Eyes lowered, she walked around him as if he didn't exist.

"Slick." Chibs said dryly, though the look on his face was sympathetic.

"What?"

"'What life.'" Chibs quoted, shaking his head. "You just said that you don't respect who she is unless she's with you. I've got a ex wife who can tell you that I don't know shit about shit, but I'm pretty sure that's exactly what she's afraid of."

"Fuck." Tig hit the wall where Anne had stood. "Goddamn, crazy women."

"Give her time, Tigger. She wouldn't be this fucked in the head if she didn't want you. Can't fathom why, but anyone can see she's mad for ye."

Tig didn't want to hear it. He turned to Happy. "Get her to the airport safe. Stick with her as far as you can."

"She ain't gonna like running with me. I make her nervous." Happy's lips twitched. He liked making women nervous.

"Right now, I don't give a shit how she feels. She wants out of Cali, we get her out of Cali. On the first fucking plane North."

Tig looked back towards the mutilated corpse. He had work to do. And by the time he was done, Anne would be far enough out of reach that he wouldn't be able to run after the stupid bitch. There wasn't anyone left to kill, so he savagely kicked one of the corpses.

His girl was gone. Fuck, who was he kidding? Anne hadn't been his girl. She'd just been something warm to fuck for a few days, here and there.


	23. Chapter 23

_Dating over the age of 30 is complicated. Any one who is still unmarried (or divorced) is carrying baggage. They're fully formed adults who are less likely to throw caution to the wind and dive into a relationship at whatever cost—it's gotten them burned before. (Speaking from experience here? Surely not…) The idea that passionate, romantic love matters more than everything is something you just stop believing. It matters, but other things matter more. _

_Incidentally, what with life being crazy as balls lately, I'm spending a lot of time in a different part of the country than I generally live. There are honest-to-god bikers all over the place. I'll walk through a department store and see a dude in a cut looking at couches with his wife. Sort of cool, but at the same time, most bikers are not sexy. Actually, let me rephrase that. I've seen one around who remotely qualifies as attractive, and that's mostly my fetish for ink talking. The rest look like Bobby… after a week without a shower. None of them are young. Sorry guys. _

_Song for the chapter is Orgy's tune Make Up Your Mind. _

_-B._

Tig lay back on the picnic bench and breathed deep from his cigarette. They'd rolled back into Teller-Morrow an hour ago, and the mood was weird. Everyone was tired from the early wake-up, ragged from party the night before, and hyped from easily overcoming the scum who jumped Anne. On top of that, they were stepping around Tig like he might snap. Strangely, Tig wasn't in the black headspace they all expected. He felt icy calm. He couldn't completely convince himself that Anne was gone. It was only a matter of time till she realized the huge mistake she'd made and came running back. Only a matter of time. He knew that if he'd kept his damn mouth shut in the motel, she'd be with him right now. Sending her off with Happy was a "fuck you," but she was tougher than that. She knew he wanted her. She knew she needed him. She'd be back.

Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked up at the sky. It wasn't threatening rain, but the late-afternoon sun was obscured by sluggishly moving clouds. Not a good California day.

He heard the clubhouse door open and footsteps approach. And he ignored it. The bench creaked with the weight of another man sitting next to him. Tig turned his head and acknowledged Half-Sack's presence. For a long time, the two sat silently.

When Half-Sack broke the silence, it was to say, "I'm going to tell you something about Anne. And you're going to shut up and listen to it."

"You giving orders now, boy?" Tig didn't have the energy to get his hackles up, but the intensity of Half-Sack's command was funny.

Refusing to get sidetracked, Sack continued. "When she was a teenager, she ran away from home. Same way Stahl did. She never told me what it was like living in the street, but I know that she did it for at least a year."

Tig didn't want to keep listening, but he didn't want to move. If he let Sack say his bit, then maybe the kid would piss off and leave him alone. "So?"

"It was a social worker who got her sorted out, off the street and in school. The same social worker she married."

"The fuck do you figure I want to know this for?"

"He never let her forget that she was a rescue. Every time she did something he didn't like, he told her she was acting like some screwed up street kid again."

"That's a real sad story."

"Are you listening? Last time she wound up with a guy who rescued her, it went bad on her."

Tig paused. "You think that's why she bailed on us."

"Yeah, I do."

"If she's that screwed up over some guy from years ago, then I'm better off clear of the crazy bitch and her drama." Tig shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe all of this mess was a mistake.

Half-Sack ignored him. "She forgot her phone when she left."

"What?"

"In the motel. Juice picked it up off the floor. When he figured out it was hers, he gave it to me."

Sack set the cell down on the table next to Tig's head. "She ain't exactly a master of secrecy. The voice-mail code is four zeroes. Took Juice about two minutes to guess it."

With that, the prospect stood and tossed his half-smoked cigarette aside. "I think she belongs here. I want to tell her to come back, but I need you to not freak out if she does."

"Since when do you need a woman around?"

"You're not the only one who wants to protect her, man. I worked out my shit with her. I think you should too." After Sack had left, Tig lay there awhile longer, not looking at the phone.

"Fuuuuck." Tig muttered. He slammed his hand into the bench, but it didn't make him feel better. He picked up the phone and flipped it open. There were several unread text messages.

The first was from someone named Lisa. It just read, "Where the heck are you?" The second was from a number Anne had labeled, "Jackass." Well, that'd probably be the ex-husband. It said, "You can't keep running away. Call me when you're ready to come back."

Jackass sounded like an appropriate name. He scrolled through more messages. They were similar. The he went into the voice mail.

"Annie..." It was a man's voice. "Is it me you're running away from? Talk to me. You don't owe me a second chance, but you do owe me an explanation."

The last message was the voice of an older woman. It made Tig smile. "Hey Annika, just wanted to let you know we miss you. The kids are giving your replacement a miserable time, but between you and me, she kind of deserves it. Someone keyed her car, and we're _pretty_ sure it wasn't a teacher. I dropped by the centre, but they said you were still in leave. Let's have coffee when you're back."

Clearly, Anne wasn't telling people where she was or what she was doing in California. He wondered how many of them even knew she'd had a sister. Tig looked down at the cell phone in his hand. He really believed Anne was coming back. Was that stupidity?

Tig's own phone rang. He looked at the call display and cringed. It was Happy.

"What now?"

"Chill, nothing big. Just thought you should know I got your girl to the airport in Oakland."

"She ain't my girl." Tig said automatically. "And why the fuck did you take her back to Oakland? LAX was closer to the motel."

"Lots of reasons." Happy said evasively. Tig shook his head. The idea of the nomad trying to manipulate Anne into staying was both horrifying and hilarious. "There's a storm in Frisco right now and it's fucked up all the airports. She gave me the slip in the crowd." Happy chuckled. "Well, I let her think she did, anyway."

"So where is she now?"

"Airport bar. She hasn't moved in half an hour and she's already three drinks down. Don't look like she's in a big hurry to get back to Calgary." Tig said nothing. Happy laughed again. "Not gonna lie man, I took at run at her after we left. Shot me down cold, brother. She can go wherever she fucking wants, but she's yours for good."

"Gee, thanks for doing a brother a solid."

"Hey, she's a killer who looks like a librarian. That's hot. Can't blame me for wanting to hit that."

"Just so we're clear on this, I'm going to punch you later."

"Counting on it." Happy hung up, leaving Tig feeling like he'd just been spun in circles.

Things weren't any clearer than they'd been before. Well, he knew where Anne was, but he couldn't just go get her. She had to want to come back. Tig cursed. Anne owned him. God damn it. Damn it to hell. He needed a drink.

The call came before he poured the second shot of whiskey. The call display said it was a public phone. He took a deep breath and let the phone ring while he walked back outside. He didn't want anyone overhearing this conversation, no matter how it went. He sat, stretched his legs out, and answered the phone with a casual, "Yeah?"

"Tig."

He'd never heard Anne's voice over the phone before. She sounded very young. Tig winced. He wanted to rake her over coals for bailing on him, make her miserable about it, but the vulnerability in her voice disarmed him. At least he still had sarcasm. "What's the matter? Get kidnapped again?"

After several breaths, she said, "I can't do it. I can't get on the plane. Can't leave."

He felt vindicated. "Few hours ago, you couldn't stay."

"I'm good at running. Really goddamn good. Any time I even think I'm putting down roots somewhere, I rip the damn things up." Anne spoke quickly, trailing off in a breath that wasn't quite a sob. "But I can't go."

"You got a pretty good start this morning. I'm supposed to just forget that you bailed?

Anne rallied. He could imagine her, hands clenched, chin lifted. "Tell me you want me gone. If you tell me you never want to see me again, I'll go." When Tig was silent, she pressed. "Say it!"

"You asking for my permission to leave?"

"No. I'm asking you to tell me there's no reason to stay. I'm a coward, Tig. I run. So if you tell me I'm alone, I'll get on the plane."

"First, tell me something."

"Anything." There was no hesitation.

"You really want to be with me, or do you just feel scared without me?"

Anne actually laughed. It was the kind of laugh that sounded half like crying, but it was more like the spirit he knew. "I feel scared that I'm too broken to keep the one guy I give a shit about. I feel scared that if I walk away now, I'm never gonna stop running away from the good things in my life. But I'm _not_ afraid of getting kidnapped again. I'll shoot the balls off anyone who tries all on my own."

Tig knew he'd lost. Where the hell else was he going to find a girl like her? "Tell me where you are."

An hour later, he found Anne in the airport bar. She looked forlorn, alone at a table with her hands wrapped around a glass. The entire airport was packed with delayed travelers, and the bar area was so busy that she was hard to spot at first. Despite the chaos around her, Anne sat with her head bowed and her hair hiding her face. Tig watched her from across the room. She was a picture of unhappiness. He was about to approach when a man in a business suit, walking with the loose stride of someone several drinks in, sauntered over to Anne. To guys like that, Anne looked like an easy target.

The man oozed into the seat across from Anne. Her head lifted, swift and alert. Far to the side, Tig couldn't the look she leveled on the stranger. Nor could he hear what she said to him. He did see the man stand abruptly, call Anne a bitch, and stride back to the bar. She took a long swallow from her drink and bowed her head again.

Tig smiled. Anne was a wolf. Even as an emotional wreck, she was still tough as hell. And his all the way through. She looked like prey, but she fought like a predator.

She looked up as he approached, somehow knowing it was him. The look on her face was pure, sweet, relief. She stood, her hands showing her anxiety. Tig had intended to drag it out and make her feel as miserable as he'd felt when he woke up alone, but he didn't. His hands were on her before he consciously made the decision to kiss her. She melted into him, yielding her mouth and body. When he pulled back to breathe, she leaned into him, her face hidden against his neck. He breathed the soft sweetness of her hair and ran his hand down her back. She hadn't left... She couldn't leave. Anne was his.

Tig touched her face. She tried to keep her head down, but he made her lift her chin to look up at him. She complied, reluctantly, as if afraid of what she'd see in his face.

"Never run out on me like that again. No notes. If you're freaking out, talk to me."

He brushed her hair off her face. She winced. He looked more closely and saw the bruises she was hiding under the artless fall of brown curls. They looked worse than they had in the motel.

"Christ, how hurt are you?"

"Just a little bruised."

He turned her head to the side and lightly touched the bruises on her cheek. She let him, so compliant that he couldn't help but think of other things he could get her to do when they were alone. Then Tig thought about the things that had already happened to her today. "The guys that took you..."

Her green eyes met his and held them. "You came. You came before anything happened."

"They threw around some threats last night while you were asleep. I was going to warn you to be careful, but you were gone before I could."

"I'm sorry." Anne closed her eyes. "I dreamed about Juney, and Lodi. Then I woke up and I was just... Scared. Of everything. Scared of what I've turned into, of what would happen if I became a… crow eater. I looked at you and wondered how long you'd want June Stahl's sister in your life…"

"You're crazier than I am."

"Tig..." Her voice broke. She wasn't crying, but he could see it was taking all her effort not to. Wolf for anyone else, completely vulnerable for him. He almost felt sorry for her. He was past all the walls, fences and barbed wire that she hid herself behind.

"Shut up," he said. He knew his hold on her must be hurting the bruises, but he held her firmly, his hand on the back of her neck. If she needed to know that he wanted her, he'd damn well show her with a kiss she'd never forget. When he loosened his grip, it didn't matter—she stayed in his arms, as close to him as his cut.

As they left the airport lounge, his arm flung around Anne's shoulders, he caught the eye of the man who'd taken an unsuccessful pass at Anne in the bar. Holding that stare, Tig gave the man a huge, wicked grin. It felt good.

It was a long day of riding after a very early, stressful morning. Although he felt buoyed by the warm weight of Anne on the bike behind him as they rode back to Charming, his eyes ached. On his own, he'd have pushed through to get home, but he worried about Anne. Her grip wasn't as tight as it had been when they left. He spotted a roadside diner and pulled into the parking lot.

When he looked at Anne's face, he knew he'd made the right decision. She was worn out and cold. He left her at a table while he went outside to call Clay. It wasn't a call he wanted to make, but it was necessary. The president sounded resigned that Anne was staying. "At least I won't have to put up with another six months of you and Sack sulking like heartsick school girls. But if there's _any_ more bullshit drama with that girl, I'm going to mail her back to Canada in a box." In the back ground, Tig heard Gemma's triumphant cry of, "Hah! Told you she'd be back. Pay up, baby."

Inside, Anne hadn't moved from the booth. She wasn't asleep, but she looked like she wanted to be. She had one hand wrapped around her coffee cup and her eyes were closed as she leaned in the corner of the booth. When Tig came close, her eyes opened. She looked up at him, pale and thoughtful.

"I didn't think you'd come for me. Either at the motel, or the airport. You saved me twice today. How am I supposed to pay you back for that?"

"I'm sure we can work out something." Tig smirked. He sat down next to Anne.

She watched him with a small smile in her face. "Okay, honestly, is there anything else I need to be afraid of right now? Anyone else looking to get a piece of June out of me?"

Tig sighed. "Maybe. One of the guys who came around dropping threats wasn't in the motel today."

Anne made a small noise of disappointment and dropped her head to her arms, which rested on the table. "I'm never getting free of this mess."

Tig stroked the tangled waves of her hair, liking how soft it was under his calloused palm. When she lifted her head, he said, "They're not just screwing with you. They're screwing with the club. And screwing with us never ends well for people."

Anne rested her head on his shoulder. He liked the gesture. She was relying on him, but not clinging to him. She was fierce in her own right. Anne was, he realized, a woman he'd be proud to say was his. He would always love Gemma, but that was a woman he'd never had a chance with. He looked down at Anne, resting there at his side. After a moment, he lifted his arm and put it around her, drawing her closer against his body.

Anne didn't eat much, but she did drink the coffee. She remained pale, and her hand was still cold when Tig touched it. Suddenly suspicious, Tig traced the edge of the bruises on her left cheek with his fingers.

He growled. "Truth, this time. How bad are you hurt?"

Anne smiled ruefully. "Just bruised. They hit my car pretty hard."

Tig remembered the wrecked Chevy, facing the wrong way in a ditch on the highway. He followed the line of bruising down her neck. On a guess, he touched her left arm, closing his hand firmly around her arm just above the elbow. Anne went from pale to white and flinched away from him. He pulled back her sleeve. The bruises that had been faint marks hours ago were now dark and painful looking.

"Not hurt, huh." He frowned. "You're full of shit."

Anne looked at him reproachfully. "Nothing broken."

"Jesus, you think you're so damn tough, don't you."

"Aren't I?"

"Not when you look like you're gong to fall asleep in your french fries, no."

"All right, it hurts like hell and I'm so tired I might actually fall asleep in the fries. But it's nothing that isn't going to heal on its own."

"Right. But you're still gonna see Tara when we get back."

"If you want."

"Not optional."

Anne just shrugged. Tig watched her push the fries around her plate for a few minutes, then reached over to steal them. They were finishing their last cups of coffee in weary silence when Tig remembered her cell phone. He held it in his pocket for a moment, weighing the choice. Then he set it on the table in front of her.

"I wondered where this was." She tapped it on the table a few times, thoughtful. "You looked, didn't you."

It wasn't even a question. Tig studied her face to see if she was pissed. She didn't seem to be. After a time, Anne tucked the phone in her pocket. "At some point, we can talk about what I'm leaving behind in Calgary. If we really have to, we can talk about my ex-husband. But tonight's not the time for this."

Tig nodded. He was okay with that. As much as he wanted to know the deal with an ex-husband who was still leaving her messages, it was clear that he wasn't someone Anne was eager to run back to. Tig kissed her forehead, threw cash down on the table, and stood. Time to go home.


	24. Chapter 24

_I based Anne on things I've seen in others, or experienced myself, but I'm only guessing at what the events in this story would do to a person. What happens when you take someone who survived a whole lot of shit, got strong and healed themselves… then throw them in a bigger pile of shit ten years later? Anne had to make the conscious decision to revisit some pretty dark places in her soul in order to stand up to the Nords. I imagine she feels a bit like she sacrificed the bright, shiny person she thought she'd become. Is that how it really works? Who knows. I am over-thinking again? Indubitably. _

_Song pick: Failsafe by New Pornographers. The lyrics are a bit vague but the song has a powerful sense of enduring hope. It's the kind of song you play at the end of a shitty day when you know you get to sleep in tomorrow. _

_Next chapter is probably going to be another Anne-view bit. The idea of her and Happy alone together is something I can't resist exploring. Obviously they didn't kill each other, but Happy's been trying to provoke her ever since they almost fought in Lodi. _

_-B._

Half-Sack's welcome was a lot warmer than it had been the last time Tig brought Anne home. The prospect caught Anne in a hug moments after she stepped in the club house door behind Tig. She winced when Half's arm came around her left side, but she said nothing and just hugged him back.

"Alright, alright, enough." Just because he trusted that Half wasn't his competition didn't mean he liked seeing other men's hands on Anne, especially when it was causing her pain.

Anne smiled and kissed Half-Sack's stubbled cheek, but moved back to Tig's side. He stroked her hair possessively. "Go chill. I'll send the doctor over."

She touched his hand and said, "Thanks."

In the club house, he found Happy sprawled on the couch, looking tired but satisfied. The nomad pushed a familiar but nameless leggy blond off his lap and assured her that he'd come for her later. Hands now free, he passed Tig a bottle of beer and raised his own without bothering to sit up. "Here's to dead Nazis."

"I'll drink to that. Thanks for looking after Anne." He narrowed his eyes. "Even if you did try to jack my girl."

Happy's smile widened. "I behaved."

Tig wondered how Happy defined the word behave. "Yeah? How come she ditched you in the airport?"

"Too much man for her."

"Uh-huh." Tig eyed narrowly Happy and took a deep drink from the chilled beer. "Never again, brother. She's officially hands off."

Unable to resist, Juice jumped into the conversation, "So does that like, make her your old lady?"

Tig rounded on Juice, leaned in, and stared the boy down. "That makes her _hands off_."

Unthreatened, Juice leaned back. "Okay, okay. Just ask'n. She's pretty mysterious, is all. She's only really friendly with Half-Sack. Er, and you, of course. Very friendly with you."

"Once she's used to us, it'll be different." Half-Sack said, without looking up his glass. "She's scared, not bitchy."

Tig scowled. "She ain't a bitch."

"Aye." Chibs commented as he came over to slap Tig on the back. He grinned. "If she were, more of ye would be bleeding. It true she's a medic?"

"No, but she learned some stuff for her job." Half-Sack answered. His eyes flicked to Tig, then away. "She patched up Tig pretty good after the wreck. Said it was way beyond what she should have been trying, though."

"Well, can't hurt to have another body around who won't faint at the sight of blood." Chibs said, satisfied.

Tig smirked. Anne might be jumpy about a lot of things, but if she saw a bullet wound, he'd bet money that she wouldn't freak out until after the bandages were set. He looked at Half-Sack. "She tell you anything else interesting in all your heart-to-hearts?"

"Not much, man." Half-Sack shrugged. "She's not a big talker."

Tig watched Half-Sack over the rim of his drink. Anne had spent a lot of time with the prospect, and the boy probably knew more about her than he did. Sure, he knew the important things—like how well she handled chaos, violence, and imminent danger… but what else? What else mattered?

Tara stepped into the room and caught Tig's eye. He met her by the hallway. The doctor didn't look particularly worried, but her eyes were stern. "She's just bruised, but some of them are second degree. I think she's going to be in a world of pain tomorrow. Looks like her arm to the worst of it, though that probably saved her from a concussion. I don't think there's any internal bleeding, but if she gets sick or dizzy at all, take her to the ER."

"Can you give her anything?"

"She's too stubborn to take any painkillers right now, but I think she'll change her mind later. I left some oxycotin." The doctor's eyes hardened at the look on his face. "For _her_, Tig."

Tig had laughed at the doctor's warning. He gave her his saddest puppy dog eyes. "Aw, shucks, doc. So little trust."

Tara visibly swallowed whatever she wanted to say and just patted his arm. "I'm glad she's safe, Tig."

Tig nodded. If it hadn't been Anne jumped in the morning, it probably would have been Tara, Lyla, or Gemma. The doctor was smart enough to know that. "Thanks for looking in on her."

"Ain't no thing for a sister." Tara said, mimicking Tig's drawl.

He laughed. When Tara first reappeared in Charming, he figured she'd bail once she saw how messy Jax's life could be. Instead, she not only stayed, she helped. Having a doctor loyal to the club was priceless. Having a doctor who was hot and had a sense of humor was beyond priceless.

"Hey doc?" Tig hesitated. "You think she'll be okay with us? Like, you think she can hang with Sam Crow for real?"

Tara's smile turned gentle. "I don't know. My guess is she'll stick around as long as she's got a good enough reason to stay. You want her to be your old lady?"

It was the question that kept coming up. His knee-jerk reaction was always to deny and play down the idea of putting labels on Anne. Somehow, it was easier to hear the question from Tara than it was from his brothers.

"Most girls around here love the MC life." He met Tara's reserved blue gaze. "Anne's not like that."

Tara nodded. "If she's here, she's here for you. Not for your cut, not for your bike, and not for your patch. You."

He rubbed at his eyes. Tara had cut right to the heart of it. If he was the only thing keeping Anne around, how long would she really stay? "Thanks doc."

"Hey. It's not a bad thing." The corner of her mouth tilted in a smirk. "And for what it's worth, I think she's got enough guts to stick it out through everything Sam Crow throws at her."

"Yeah, she's a fighter." Tig said, feeling a bit better.

"I'll bring some things for her tomorrow, help make her feel welcome." Tara's lips twitched. "Just remember—until those bruises heal, be _gentle_."

"Yes, ma'am."

As she walked away, Tara shot him a look that managed to be both warning and affectionate. Jax was lucky to have her. Tara never flirted with Tig, but she treated him like he mattered. In fact, she wasn't intimidated by anyone in the club. She knew her place in it, and had no doubts that she was completely safe with Tig or any of the other members.

How long would it take to get Anne to that point? If Anne couldn't be good with the club, any relationship they started probably wouldn't last very long. John Teller had always said that you told an old lady everything, or nothing—it was the shit in between that got you in trouble. Anne was too smart to know nothing, but could she handle everything?

Tig rubbed at his eyes again. Too many hours riding, not enough sleep, and he was turning into a giant goddamn girl. Anne was the woman who fought Nords. She'd be fine with Sam Crow.

It wasn't much later before Tig set his last beer down and went down the back hall to the apartment. He let himself in quietly. The lights were still on, but Anne was asleep in bed, curled up on her side, half covered by a blanket. She was wearing a club t-shirt and pink pajama pants. Someone must have retrieved her suitcase from the wrecked Chevy. With the bruises hidden and her hair splayed across the pillow, she looked both wholesome and wickedly tempting. He'd had fantasies like this—seducing some clean college co-ed in the night.

Then he noticed the knife on the bedside table. Was that Happy's knife? Christ. How the hell had that happened? Now she was sweetly sleeping, waiting for him, wearing pajamas with teddy-bears printed on them. Adorable _and_ dangerous.

He wanted to tear away the blanket and wake her with his hands and mouth, but after the doctor's warning, he knew he had to let her sleep. He rubbed at his eyes and admitted to himself that just lying down next to Anne wasn't a distant second when it came to desires. He killed the light, shed his clothes and slid into the bed next to her. As he settled, liking the unfamiliar feeling of getting under a blanket that was already warmed by someone else, Anne stirred. She snuggled up against him, catlike and soft. Tig fell asleep with her breath on his arm and her hair twinned around his fingers.

Hours later, Tig woke alone. For a moment, that felt right. Then his hand went out to where Anne had fallen asleep at his side. Nothing but rumpled sheets and her scent. Tig groaned.

The bedroom door was open, and there was dim light beyond. Ignoring the protests of his tired, aching body, Tig slipped from the bed on quiet feet and stepped into the living room. Anne was sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, holding her cell phone. She wasn't using it, just turning it over in her hands, eyes focused on nothing. Tig was practically standing over her before she noticed him. She tensed, eyes flashing feral before she recognized him. She shook her head ruefully and looked up at him, apologetic.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Didn't mean to scare you, sweetheart." His annoyance at waking alone evaporated at the sight of her. Curled there, a blanket pulled up around her shoulders, she looked both innocent and profoundly sad. "Bad dreams?"

"No dreams." She shook her head. "Everything just hurts more than yesterday."

"You take the meds Tara left?"

"Twenty minutes ago. I've been waiting for them to start working." Anne set her phone on the coffee table. "I'm sorry I woke you."

He touched her face with his fingertips. Gently, he tilted her chin so that she had to look him in the eye. He looked for regret, or fear, or guilt. All that he saw in Anne's eyes was trust and weariness.

"Were you going to call someone in Calgary?"

Anne's head tilted. She looked at him with those deep green eyes that gave away nothing. Her bandaged hand reached up and took his arm. She firmly pulled him down so that their noses almost touched.

"I knew I was making a mistake before I even hit the highway, yesterday. I just needed the space to breathe and figure out how to feel." She spoke calmly and levelly. Her hand stroked the back of his neck, then he felt the edge of her fingernails lightly digging into his skin. "I'm your girl, Tig. At least for now. But if you ever send me off alone with that creepy knife-crazy bastard again, we're going to have words."

It was challenging to laugh and kiss someone at the same time, but Anne made it possible. He said, "No second thoughts?"

"It was never you I was running away from. It was me." Anne held his gaze. She frowned thoughtfully. The tone of her voice turned self-mocking and she glanced at the hand she'd cut on the mirror days ago. "I'm pretty sure I _did_ mention at some point that I'm really stupid sometimes."

Tig closed his eyes, bowing his head just enough to touch his forehead to hers. He had thought that the way she'd left would linger between them, a bitter point of distrust. But with her confession, he understood. It was all about chains. She had them on him, he had them on her. He walked around the couch and sat by Anne's side. Gently, he took her left hand and pushed back the blanket she was wrapped in. The bruises were a painful-looking mess, and she held the arm stiffly. She inhaled sharply when he moved it, but didn't protest.

He cradled her wrist. In his large hand, it looked delicate and pale. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this."

Anne's eyes were gentle. She touched his face lightly with her other hand. "You can't protect me from everything."

The idea that he couldn't made Tig wince. He bowed his head to hide it from her. Now that she was here and it was in the open that she was something he wanted, he felt vulnerable. If anything had happened to her...

"Tig." She frowned, sensing that his mood had shifted. "I'm fine. Really."

Tig thought about the knife next to the bed. Anne was hurt, and he'd sent her off with the brother who scared her. "I shouldn't have told Happy to take you, yesterday. He said he made a move on you, but he wasn't bleeding when he told me. You sure you're okay?"

"He heard me when I said no." Anne gave him a wry smile. "Then he laughed his head off, said you and I were both idiots, and drove me to Oakland. Longest four hours of my life."

"Anne, he's a brother. He'll never hurt you. I promise." He wasn't sure Anne could understand club life yet, but she would. "Actually, it's a bit weird how much he likes you."

"Lust, maybe. Dunno about like."

Tig tried to think of how to explain Happy without making him sound even worse than Anne was figuring. Hell, he'd probably make himself sound like a psychopath in trying.

"Nah, he likes you." Tig said. Anne didn't look convinced, but as long as she stayed long enough to know the Sons, she'd learn the way a chapter worked. "Good thing for me that you like me more. Come back to bed, baby. You're not going to want to walk far when the oxy kicks in."

"I don't want to walk far now." Anne protested, but she let Tig help her up, stepping into his arms like it was something they'd done for years. She kissed him, a gentle, sleepy kiss. More affection than passion, but that was okay for tonight. He knew she wasn't going to run again, and a girl who'd fuck on a hotel balcony wasn't going to get boring any time soon.

Anne lay down at his side, her injured arm resting on his bare chest and her head on his shoulder. He kept himself awake, lazily threading his fingers through her hair. Within ten minutes, he could tell the oxycotin was starting to work. Her injured arm relaxed and she sighed. Knowing that she wasn't hurting anymore, Tig let himself sleep. She'd be with him when the sun came up. She'd said it herself—his girl.


	25. Chapter 25

_As I warned you, here's another weird veer into Anne's point of view. I write things like this for my original fiction to feel out "off-camera" scenes or view-points, then set them aside and stick with a consistent form for the story. (If I had done this with Connor, maybe he wouldn't be so two-dimensional.) However, since fanfic is more of a fun writing exercise than a serious project for me, I'm throwing some of them in as bonus (read: filler) material. _

_It's probably worth mentioning that how Happy sees Anne isn't necessarily entirely accurate. Sometimes when we recognize a rare but desired quality in another person, we project a whole lot of other things we want to see as well. Yeah, Happy's kind of doing that to a certain degree, assuming Anne is a bit more sociopathic than she actually is. However, if this story had gone a different way, maybe Connor and June's influence would have twisted Anne far enough to be Happy's girl, instead of Tig's. So there is a connection between the two of them that they're both feeling, but it's just enough to completely unnerve Anne rather than draw her to him. When she looks at him, she sees the thing she's terrified of becoming. _

_I figured the songs for this chapter would be pretty dark, but I'm going with the song Into the Fire by Thirteen Senses. It has a great intensity and growing heat to it… it feels like the same kind of liberation Anne's going through as she embraces the strength it takes to face down Happy—something so scary and strangely natural that the courage to stop and ask Tig for a second chance is suddenly an option, instead of just running the rest of the way behind her walls._

"_Come on, come on  
Put your hands into the fire  
Explain, explain  
As I turn I meet the power  
This time, this time  
Turning white and senses dire  
Pull up, pull up  
From one extreme to another"_

_Wondering how to write dialogue for Happy? Step 1: Write what you want him to communicate. Step 2: Edit it back to 1/3 the number of words. Step 3: Realize it's still out of character and cut that back. Step 4: Say fuck it, it's just fanfic. Let's assume he's a little mouthier with chicks when he's one-on-one. So here's the throw-down between Anne and Happy that neither of them are ever going to explain to Tig. Ever. _

_(Also, I do not get the Tara-hate, except people being jealous she "gets" Jax. She doesn't do any more dumb things than any other character in the show.) _

_-B._

A sense of cold calm came over me as I walked away from the motel. I welcomed it. Happy jerked his head towards the car at the top of the driveway, and then ignored me, turning to talk to Clay. I don't need to be told twice. Or rather, three times. I heard Tig tell Happy to take me away. The words ripped me apart, but it's no worse than what I did to him by leaving. I deserve this. By the time I'd realized that I was trying to run away from _myself_, not Tig, it was too late.

After ripping my life away from Martin, I swore I'd never let anyone own me for any price. I compromised to keep my head above water with Connor, but every obedient act scraped a little more of my righteousness away. And now? Tig's got a hold on me that's getting harder to deny. Where's the line between want and need? That fence is getting too narrow to hold me up.

Freedom. It's worth more than anything else, right? It always has been before.

Tig's voice is in my head. _What life?..._ He said it so incredulously, like it was impossible to believe I had anything worthwhile outside of California, as if his world could just overwrite everything I had him. It's _my_ life, not his. I'm more than something to rescue and cuddle until he gets bored. My fingernails bite deep into the flesh of my palms, a steadying pain. Anger is easier than fear, but it's just another distraction from the truth. Oh god, Tig… rescue me from myself.

I reach out to the cold that lives behind the anger, behind the fear. I invite it into my head and welcome it with open arms. If no one was watching, I'd have limped up that goddamn hill, but pride kept my steps even as I walked to the car. I stood by it, too stubborn to even lean on it, waiting for Happy. The hell kind of name is Happy, anyway? Sheer irony. When he turns back towards me, his dark eyes are the same ones he locked on mine in the Lodi warehouse. He moves like a cat, which makes me even more conscious of how much pain I'm in. I can stand, but I can't run.

It dawns on me that I am very, very unsafe right now.

I know better than to show fear. Spend enough nights in youth shelters and you learn pretty quick that emotion—any emotion—calls attention to you. If you don't give a shit, you're as close to invisible as it gets. It took me a long time to break down those walls and learn how to stop ruthlessly censoring my reactions. But it was the older lessons that kept me breathing last year. The Nords resurrected the girl I used to be, and I don't know how to put that bitch back in the grave. I meet Happy's stare to show that I'm not submissive, but look away as if I'm not interested or threatened.

He doesn't buy it. He circles me like he's checking out a car, or livestock. My nerves scream at me to spin and keep him in my sight, but what would that help? Might just get him more into rattling my cage. Goddamn it, Tig. He wouldn't have sent me with Happy if he thought I'd get hurt. I know that. Hell, Kip would have intervened. But maybe they don't know him as well as they think they do. Wouldn't be the first time I've met a guy who's a lovable rogue with his friends but an unholy terror to any women unfortunate enough to end up alone with him.

My line of thought ends abruptly as Happy's hand touches the back of my neck. He draws my hair to one side, gently. His hand lingers, fingers just touching the tattoo I had painfully and cathartically etched over Connor's swastika.

"You took what they did to you and went past it, instead of back." His voice is a growl. I bet there are half a dozen crow-eaters who'd kill to have him intimately breathing on their neck, but in that moment, I'd have killed to have Tig beside me.

"Past it." I echo. It's not really a question, but I don't understand how any part of what I am and what I'm doing is past the Lodi warehouse.

"You could have had that removed. Erased Lodi. But you made it yours."

"Sure." I say, non-committal. I shrug off his touch and step back, turning to face him. I look down the hill to see if Tig can see what's happening, but there's no one to save me.

"He's not coming, chica. He sent you with me for a reason."

Yeah, to scare the shit out of me. I'm out of my depth here, so I do the thing I always fall back on. Pretend to not care. I give Happy a blank look. No fear, no anger.

Happy laughs like I've performed some trick. He pushes me back, firmly but not viciously. The car is cold against my back and Happy leans over me. Trapped. No fear, no anger… just ice. His hands move to my waist, and then his lips touch mine like he owns me. The last person I kissed was Tig, before I ran. Tig...

Anger fills me with heat and strength. If Happy wants to get what I gave to Tig, he's going to have to take it. I'm done calculating the balance of pain. I killed Connor. What else can I do?

I put my hands on Happy's arms and shove, hard—the same way I pushed away from Tig minutes ago. Again, my left arm screams pain at me, but that just makes me madder. I had to be passive in Connor's world for so long that I've almost forgotten that it's a choice. Act, or don't act. You just have to be willing to live with the consequences. Unlike when I pushed Tig away, I bring my knee up sharply.

Most guys, that would have worked. Happy was expecting it and deflects it without even flinching. He lightly steps back, looking at me with a kind of joy sparking in his eyes. It's not the sexualized machismo I'd expect from someone who is clearly delighting in intimidation. It's something else. We played out the entire little dance in complete silence.

"If you had a knife right now, you'd try to cut me, wouldn't you, chica."

"Yes." Why lie? I narrow my eyes at him. The familiar icy stillness in my soul grows stronger. We're staring each other down again—but last time we did this, both of us had knives. Now, he's the only one armed.

Happy watches me, still and thoughtful, eyes bright. I can't tell what's worse—looking at his eyes, or looking at his hand inches away from the knife on his belt. A minute ago, I thought I was going to get raped. Now I'm starting to think it's worse than that. He moves a little closer.

"Only thing I don't get is why you didn't kill him back there."

No need to ask who he's talking about. At the word _kill, _my eyes flick to Happy's knife. Is there any possible way I can get that away from him? I force myself to meet his gaze. "I couldn't."

"Bullshit."

I stand there, staring. What is the truth? I could kill again. Why didn't I? Then I find the only words that don't feel like a lie. "It felt too easy. Like it didn't matter."

And that simple truth terrifies me. It would have been so easy to pull the trigger. It wouldn't have cost me anything to go into that icy place in my head, shoot the asshole, and walk away. Instead I'd stood there, barefoot in the same blood that's still splattered in my hair, and coolly decided that Kip or Tig were the ones who wanted (_needed?_) to kill him. I'd gotten Connor—it was someone else's turn. Happy sees me eyeing his knife and laughs.

"Oh chica, you and Tig deserve each other. You're like us." Happy finds the look on my face even funnier. He pulls the knife and balances it in his hand, holding the blade rather than the hilt. Moving unexpectedly fast, he steps up again, backing me against car. He holds the hilt out until I take it, slowly and disbelieving.

Mutely, I stand with the blade in my hand and Happy in front me. The desire to cut him vanished along with the last of my certainty. His lips turn up in something that shouldn't be called a smile. "Anyone else tries to take what you don't want to give, cut them."

"Even you?" I'm an idiot, but at this point, I'm so sick of Happy yanking my chain that I don't care.

"Chill. You and me could have had all kinds of fun, but you're Tig's." He doesn't seem all that disappointed. "Even if you can't see it, you're Tig's girl. Get in the car. I'll take you back to Oakland. "

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Are you too scared to get in the car?"

Yes. But the glint of mockery and understanding in his eyes makes me feel reckless. If Tig sent me with Happy expecting me come running back into his manly-man arms, shivering with feminine fragility, he's going to be pissed.

In the car, Happy slips sunglasses over his eyes, turns to me, and grins. "You and Tig are both goddamn idiots."

He's still chuckling as the gravel spins under the car's tires. The teenagers I work with have a lot of really stupid catch-phrases and jargon. For some reason, one comes to mind as I begin a four hour road trip with a sociopath. _Fuck my life._


End file.
